In Fear Of
by The Weaver Atropos
Summary: Siberian has always kept a secret and now, that secret's out in the open. Somehow, Schwarz and Weiss both find themselves involved in Ezsett's web of deceit when the test subjects of Rosenkreuz's wicked experiments come to light. RANKEN, OMIYOUJI, SB
1. Suspicions

* * *

**_In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos  
_**_Chapter 1 --Suspicions_

* * *

Ken was depressed. There was no doubt about it. The usually energetic and lithe athlete was, at the moment, curled into a lazy ball on the floor beside the couch. His head was cradled absently within his arms, his expression almost nonminding that he was pressed flat against the cold marble of the basement floor.

Ken usually did illogical things like that when he was upset.

Why he didn't just crawl up into the more comfortable sofa, Youji couldn't particularly fathom. All he knew was that if things continued as they were, he was going to have a rather displeased amethyst-eyed man on his trail. "Ne, Kenken?"

Youji nudged the immobile body curiously with a toe, wondering if Ken had somehow slipped into any type of irrational coma. Maybe Shulidich had stopped by, or maybe…

"Ken," the brunette corrected, sparing Youji a melancholy glance. "It's Ken."

Youji shrugged but proceeded just as well, "Kenken, our ever fearless leader suggests you make you way upstairs before a permanent boot mark becomes etched on your behind."

Ken rolled his eyes and turned on his side. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Aya's pain in the ass persona. As it was, Ken could barely handle talking to Youji—much less would he survive with the human block of ice. Especially since Aya was the source of the entire problem in the first place.

He would've gone up to his apartment long ago if he hadn't had to pass by the myriad of girls at the shop on the way there. No, he preferred laying, cold and quite morose, on the tiled floor of their 'mission room' then risk being glomped one more time. Growling, Ken pondered at the possibility of it being the girls' faults that he was feeling the way he was.

Aya would, of course, laugh at the notion—if the man were ever to commit such a crime—as being foolish and impractical. Ken mentally crossed his arms. So what if he was foolish and impractical? At least he wasn't maniacally anal about keeping his room clean. Though, why Aya bothered to keep his room in such an immaculate state made no sense to Ken. It wasn't as if the red head compulsively allowed visitors into his room; Sakura was the obvious rare exception, and even then, those visits were quite terse.

"Don't you think you're being too dramatic?"

That was Youji again. During his brief internal rant, he had almost completely forgotten the presence of the self-proclaimed sex god. Ken shook his head and sank further into the floor with woe. "A whole _month_, Youji—a whole _month_ without salary. Why? Because that little twit of Aya's decided to have a common 'fainting spell' right in the middle of the Koneko."

Youji grinned at Ken's rampant usage of his fingertips to indicate his emphasis and point, "…and no one said—look out Ken, there's an awfully irritating fifteen year old swerving in your direction. No one _bothered_, Youji. And Aya was there, too—"

Shrugging, the blond playboy dropped down beside Ken and offered him a Cheshire grin. "At least Sakura's been too bedridden to show up here. I have to offer my praise for that one."

Ken managed a somewhat wry grin. "Yeah, but Aya's been visiting her for the greater part of the week. Almost as much as Aya-chan, I'd wager, were Sakura to ever be comatose.

Youji shrugged once more and ruffled Ken's hair affectionately. It was nearly Christmas and, for one sadistic reason or another, Aya had gotten it in his skin that everything—despite his normal aversion to the Christian holiday—had to be perfect for the 25th.

"Besides," Youji began with a yawn, "Aya wants the entire place decked out in decorations."

Ken raised an eyebrow in surprise as much as his current state would allow him. "_Aya_ wants _decorations_ up?"

Youji nodded and Ken sat up suddenly, slightly more energized then before, "The same Aya who called Halloween a 'childish and maniacally ridiculous' celebration?" At Youji's nod, Ken continued, "the _same_ Aya who unfortunately happened to step on all our Easter eggs this spring?"

"Apparently Sakura coaxed him into it. That and a bout of puppy-dog eyes with Omi."

Ken, who had livened up during his conversation with Youji, felt his shoulders sag once more at the mention of Sakura's ability to convince Aya to do certain things. "I guess I'll put up the decorations, then…"

Rising, and frowning a bit as he did so, Youji lazily made his way back upstairs to the flower shop. It was his break time—had been for the past hour—but he'd skipped it, taking over Ken's shift instead. He might've not always been the most considerate of fellows, but Youji'd always do something to make a friend feel better.

* * *

"Ohayo, Ken-san!"

"Ohayo!"

"Ne, Ken-san—"

Ken gave a wan smile and tried in vain to tune out the loads of screaming fangirls suddenly obscuring his vision. From the corner of an eye, he could see his violet-eyed comrade glaring obstinately in his direction, as if willing the girls away by the blink of an eye. Self-conscious, Ken turned his body fully in the direction of a particularly excited young girl and offered a tired request for her order.

He was halfway back to the register when he felt the weight of an arm drop on his shoulder without warning. Startled and ready to pounce on his attacker, Ken turned, eyebrow quirking adoringly at coming face to face with a lock of Aya's fiery crimson hair. Absently, Ken realized just how small he was when compared with Aya. _Almost as if he could…_

Aya paused a moment, only mildly aware that Ken had drifted off, and tightened his grip on the brunette to help rouse him from his daydream. Ken responded accordingly, blinking coffee eyes quickly and focusing them on his teammate. _What?_

"Are they bothering you?" Ken was caught off guard by the question, not expecting any concern from Aya's persona, and quite used to the callous nature of the redhead. Ken shook his head no and swallowed thickly. He wasn't sure where this was going…

Clearing his throat, Ken let his eyes drop to the ground, his neck aching at having to constantly arch it to meet Aya's violet-hued gaze, and felt his throat tighten as they took in Aya's pale, creamy hands—one of which had only recently left his shoulder. Feeling a slight tingle of warmth spread through his limb, Ken uncomfortably rotated it, raising his left arm to rub at it when the sensation didn't fade.

Aya, though curious, let Ken be, offering only a nod before his departure. Grateful more than he liked to admit, Ken returned to his arrangement, frowning slightly as an idle rose pricked his index finger. Glowering at the offending thorn, he propped open a side drawer and withdrew a pair of sterling silver hand scissors as well as a roll of red and green ribbon. Not being nearly as careful as he usually was, Ken began to heedlessly curl the strands of ribbon, running the sharp edge of the scissors along the plane of the trimming to help it along. He was near finished when the scissors slipped and, much like a blade would, grazed the surface of Ken's right hand. Not thinking, the brunette sighed and heeded the advice of young toddlers over the world, and brought the appendage to his lips, suckling on it absently. Humming a bit to himself as he did so, Ken was only slightly conscious of the quiet tittering in the shop. Sighing once more, Ken rearranged the flowers in the arrangement, licking his lips at their sudden dryness.

"Ken?"

Shaken from his silent reverie, Ken raised his gaze toward Aya, noting a peculiar expression on his face. The youth cocked his head curiously to the side, waiting for the redhead to continue, and was surprised when Abyssinian's cold fingertips closed about his own and roughly pulled down his hand, tearing his injured finger from its sedated cavern. Ken frowned. "Oi, Aya—"

"Stop that!"

His tone was curt. Exasperated, almost. Intrigued, Ken glanced around towards Youji, knitting his eyebrows together as he posed the silent question. _Wha??_

Youji wasn't much help, though, offering only a slight chuckle before turning back towards the buxom woman with whom he'd been conversing.

Ken was about to begin his complaining once more when he felt Aya roughly tug on his wrist. Biting down the growl that was threatening to make its way past his lips, Ken allowed himself to be pulled into the adjoining inventory room.

Small and decorated only by shelves laden with stock books and deliveries that hadn't yet been moved into the greenhouse for safe keeping, it had only been further crowded by the myriad of Christmas decorations that had been haphazardly tossed inside. Aya scanned the room quickly, seeming only slightly annoyed at its messy state before motioning for Ken to sit.

"Aya—" Ken was nearly whining, "Why do I—"

"You hand," was all the redhead commanded, extending one thin, frail-looking hand. Glaring, Ken surrendered his own, eyes drawn to the sharp contrast of milky white and toasted bronze.

"It's not that serious, you know—I've had worse. Say, like that time when we had to attack Liott? You remember that? Yeah…well, my bugnuks weren't fast enough and this idiot went _whoosh_…right there—" Ken wrenched his hand away for a second and pointed to the juncture of his arm and forearm. "I've had this gash on it since then—its kind of…"

"Do you ever shut up?"

Aya's tone wasn't nearly as exasperated as it was amazed. As unflattering as the comment perceding it might've been, it was a new emotion that was being expressed by his comrade and Ken prided himself in the knowledge that it had been caused by him.

Smiling in response, Ken cradled his head in his left arm while Aya tended to his right. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Aya's soft tenor broke through Ken's thoughts. "Your mouth has a lot of germs."

"Huh?" Ken lifted his head off his arm for a few seconds, keen on telling Aya his mouth wasn't the only one with germs, when he caught onto what the redhead was saying. Assuaged, he dropped it back into his arms. "…Guess it does."

Aya's gaze flickered to him for a few seconds in amusement before returning to his palm. But Ken's attention had been picquied. "So then, why does everyone tell you to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Suck on it."

"Suck on what?"

Ken's cheeks colored slightly despite himself, "Your finger. Or on any other cut."

Aya shrugged. "It's not sanitary. Logically, at least. Granted _some_ bacteria's going to be destroyed by your salival fluids, but—-what?"

Ken wore a disgusted expression. "You make saliva sound like the most abhorrable thing in the world."

Aya shrugged, seemingly not bothered by Ken's random spoutings. "I mean, saliva's involved in a lot of things—"

Now, the redhead lifted an interested eyebrow. He had his own idea of where that particular sentence could go, but wanted to let the brunette realize what he'd gotten himself into. "…you use it to eat, and to kill some germs, and for lots of other stuff, too."

"Like?"

Ken shifted uncomfortably. "To glue envelopes."

"That's the best you can do?"

The bugnuk-wielding soccer player turned his gaze on a violet to the left of Aya's head, absentmindedly comparing the color of his eyes to the vibrant hues of the flower. "And…well, you use it to clean stuff."

"And…?"

_And...?_

"And, you use it when—"

"Finished."

"Huh?"

Aya motioned towards Ken's hand. "Finished," he softly repeated.

Ken smiled thankfully when Aya finished securing the final clip of the bandage about Ken's wrist. It meant he'd be saved from further questioning. He was nearly out the door when Aya's soft voice fluttered to him. "Next time don't suckle on it."

Ken gave another vibrant grin. "Promise."

He'd only just stepped out of the room when Youji's grinning face came into view. "Leader had his boxers in a knick, didn't he?"

Ken frowned at the blonde, not quite understanding what was being said and moved away, intending to head back towards the girl who was awaiting her arrangement, when Youji caught his arm. "You mean you didn't see it?"

"See what?"

"Ahh…Kenken, you can be so…innocent sometimes."

Ken bristled at the use of the adjective to describe himself. He hardly saw himself as being innocent. Sakura, however conniving she could be, was innocent, Yuriko was innocent, _Aya-chan_ was innocent. Ken Hidaka was, by no means, innocent. "Out with it, Kudou, I have customers."

"Tch. I have enough gall _not_ to tell you after this right now."

Ken rolled his eyes, knowing rather well that the blonde playboy couldn't hold his tongue for over a day and would certainly prefer telling him to waiting and suffering his harboring of a secret from Ken. "All right, Kenken, you win."

Allowing the nickname to slide for once, Ken crossed naked forearms across his chest and reclined carelessly against the back wall. "Well?"

"Well?" Youji seemed affronted, personally aggrieved, "You mean you _really_ didn't notice?"

Ken felt a slight blush into his cheeks, but fought it off valiantly…and failed. Face now burning in anger, the young athlete made to leave but was held in check by Youji, who apologized with a quick smile. "Your finger."

Eyebrows knitting in confusion, Ken lifted a bandaged hand. "Yeah—Aya bandaged it."

At the new information, Youji raised a mustard colored eyebrow. _Aya_ had bandaged it? "Willingly?" he couldn't help inquiring, chuckling a bit when the shorter man smacked him heartily about the head. He ignored the loads of fangirls who screeched indignantly at the defilement of their beloved at the soccer player's 'crude and unskilled' hands.

"So you really didn't notice, then, Kenken?" as he spoke, Youji ruffled his hair affectionately. Shrugging no, Ken blinked up curious brown eyes to his teasing teammate and waited for the older man to continue speaking. "All right then…"

"Do you remember what you were doing, just then?"

"I sliced my hand—from the inside of my finger to about halfway through my palm—why?"

Youji shook his head no, "What _were_ you _doing_?"

Ken remained thoughtful for a few seconds before bringing up the index finger of his left hand and popping it absently in his mouth. Speaking around it, he began, "Bwell…I mfhad in thfere—"

Youji chuckled amusedly at Ken's attempt to speak and deftly lifted his own hand to come around Ken's fingers, mirroring Aya's earlier move. He brought Ken's hand down. "Have you any idea how many men and women in here have just had their fantasies fulfilled because of your total and absolute cluelessness?"

Ken frowned. He wasn't sure he understood what Youji was saying. But his doubts were soon clarified, "You, Kenken, were sucking your finger with all the reckless abandon of a hormonal school-girl."

Had the soccer player's skin tone been any lighter, he would've surely resembled a tomato. As it was, he was dangerously close. Eyes wide, he opened his mouth only to hear a strangled cry emerge.

"Y-Youji!"

Youji's ever-growing grin was only further nursed by Ken's efforts to make it disappear. Youji had to admit, he'd known the brunette wouldn't have taken care of his cut the way he had if he'd known how everyone else would take it, but Youji'd never known one to be so unintentionally sensual. Especially not if that someone was Hidaka Ken. It was all in good fun, though.

"Oh God…" Ken slid to the ground morosely, "Is that why Aya—oh…man…" The young man's face shifted through a variety of shades of red, each one seemingly darker than the last, before settling on a soft pink. Heaving out one final sigh, he dared to peek out at Youji from behind the fingers he had brought up to obscure his face, "Do you think—"

Youji would've outright laughed had he not known his teammate wouldn't have appreciated that. The fact was, their ever silent, icicle resembling leader _had_ seemed to be taken off-balance by Ken's little display. It was a minimal crack in the armor, no doubt, but for a moment Youji had seen Aya the living, breathing, _feeling_ man as opposed to the cold assassin Abyssinian.

"I'm sure he felt something. Hell, everyone in here did."

Ken raised doleful coffee eyes at him, "_Everyone_…?" At Youji's nod, they were only buried once more in his arms. If there was one thing Ken had never been quite able to adapt to as being the star soccer player, it was his ability to attract attention. Having been of slight build and good looks for the greater part of his life, Ken had never quite managed to get out of being dubbed adorable and cute. He'd even been called sexy once, though he hadn't quite understood what it was a girl found sexy about his running around, sweaty, in old jeans and a shirt full of holes.

"Don't worry Kenken," Youji assuaged, stooping down to offer his comrade's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, "there's absolutely nothing shameable about being a sex-magnet."

"Yooouji! I am _not_ a sex magnet! I haven't even—" Ken cut himself off when he realized half of the shop's occupants were staring oddly in his direction. The other half were muttering excitedly and giggling.

Ken flushed a thick red and looked away hastily. He really didn't want to think he'd done _all_ of that…

Youji affectionately ruffled the brunette's hair. Then, leaning closer, he stooped so that his mouth was only centimeters from Ken's left ear. About to complain, the young man was cut short by four heavy-weighing words. "We have a mission tonight."

* * *

Ken growled. A mission. Tonight. Oh, why the hell not—his day couldn't get any worse. Stomping his way upstairs, Ken made sure to make each step reverberate with the weight of his moroseness. He couldn't help it. He knew he was being childish, but then again—why the hell _shouldn't_ he be childish? He was only nineteen…that was still pretty young. Hell, if his room was any indication of his age, he was still very much the teenager.

Ken sidestepped numerous water bottles scattered about and kicked aside his dirty soccer shirt from earlier that week on his way to his bed…on which he would've promptly collapsed if not for the fact that last night's dinner plate was still on it. And, despite his mood, the dish looked strangely appetizing. Ken bit his lip and looked quickly from side to side. Oh, why not?! He had every chance of dying of food poisoning than he did of being shot that night, anyway.

And that was true.

The missions were getting tougher by the day. Kritiker wasn't content with their eliminating the 'Pick of the Week' anymore. They wanted Weiss to dig deeper into the organized crime of Japan. They wanted Weiss to kill the virus where it started. Attack the cause instead of the effect, so to speak.

Ken absently scuffed the toe of his sneaker against a brown stain on his carpet. The only consolation the missions brought to him were the fact that he'd get to spend more time with Aya, pathetic as that may sound. The truth was, Ken had taken to the fact that Aya always partnered the two together. It was always Youji and Omi working on the lights, the alarms—the distractions. But it was always Aya and Ken who attacked—always Aya and Ken who carried out the missions. Ken figured it was because they both worked with close-range weapons. Omi would, after all, be very much vulnerable without his darts or bow and arrow. He was too small to prove a hefty opponent. And, while Youji could very well hold his own in a fight—with or without his wires—the older man tended to avoid physical contact whenever he could. He had an aversion with touching someone he was to kill. It was a rule he fervently abided by.

Ken—Ken really couldn't avoid touching his victims. He had to hold on to them with his free hand sometimes to keep them from moving away. They writhed a lot, yes, and that was often more disturbing than he cared to admit, but it was nothing he wasn't already used to. It was a liability, sometimes—his weapon. Youji and Omi, they had invisibility on their side. They could shoot or strangle from afar. They didn't have to get too involved with the victims, or any of their lackeys, for that matter. Ken, on the other hand, had to deal with the fact that—once he used his bugnuks on one person, they'd let out a scream loud enough to warn anyone else around of his presence. His weapon wasn't a stealthy one. Not that he wanted it that way, either. Ken wasn't the type to _be_ stealthy. He was straightforward…head on…a bit reckless in that manner, too. And he was way too clumsy to be stealthy even if he had wanted to be. He couldn't recount the many times he'd fallen flat on his face right before disarming some maniac, or been saved from a fired shot only because he'd tripped over his own feet.

Ken blushed. He could be very absentminded in that regard. Which was why he believed Aya tried to keep out an eye for him. As much as he could, anyway. A katana may have been a great weapon in the hands of the great Aya Fujimiya, but it meant diddly-squat against a gun—regardless of its wielder's prowess with it.

Ken wondered at that again. Logically and strategically speaking, pairing Aya and him on a mission did have its dangers. For one, both were close-range fighters; should they be attacked by someone with a gun, they'd have a greater chance being shot trying to disarm him than Omi or Youji would. It would make more sense to pair Ken with Youji and Omi with Aya, or vice-versa. Then again, that would have its dangers as well, as it would leave both Ken and Aya—in their respective pairs—to fend off all the physical attackers. That would be rather tiring on one person, however trained they might be. The only thing Ken figured would be good strategy would be to send in Youji and Omi first, have them eliminate whatever far-range targets they could, and leave Aya and him to deal with the rest. The only problem with _that_ theory would be that they would no longer have the element of surprise as an aid. "Argh…"

Ken groaned as he fell backwards into his bed. Whatever way he saw it, their chances of survival—regardless of logic—where always slim. And, ironically, they outran death more times than a tight-rope walker. The brunette grinned sadistically. He bet divine forces were pulling their hairs out at the thought of their repeated success.

"Hidaka!"

Glancing tiredly to his bedside clock, Ken was surprised to note that his break was over. "Time sure flies when you're thinking about why you haven't died yet."

* * *

"Seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three…" Grinning, Ken managed to wipe sweat-drenched bangs from his face and continue his kicks of his soccer ball at the same time. His charges were amazed.

"Wow! Ken-niisan is _great_!" a small, pixie-faced girl was elbowed in the ribs by another child, this one a scraggly blond boy. "Of course he's great!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air as he rolled his eyes, "He's a _professional_."

A round of 'oohs' and 'ahhs' echoed through the small group of children, all of them eventually fading to open-mouthed expressions. "ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven…"

"He's gonna make it!"

"Shush! Ya're gonna make 'im mess up!"

"Go, Ken-niichan!!"

"One-hundred!"

Catching the ball before it rolled all the way to the ground, Ken used his free hand to push a triumphant fist into the air. The tiny tots about his mirrored his move. He was their idol. He could, in their eyes, do no wrong that couldn't—in one way or another—be justified. The brunette's eyebrows furrowed together slightly at the thought. _If only they knew…_

Soon, the group of children he coached every afternoon dispersed, some parents coming up to him to tell them how much they'd heard about him, the mothers fawning over his sweaty state, exclaiming he'd get sick if he didn't get home soon. Others still, invited him over to watch the game on their plasma TVs, nonminding that he drip sweat all over their expensive bearskin rugs. Ken politely turned down all their invitations, saying he had a date with a friend…fact which sent most of the mothers chattering with excitement. They demanded that—whoever that date be—come over to join him at their house. They wanted to meet whoever Ken thought special. They wanted to protect him. And, in a way, having a variety of middle-aged women affectionately tidying up his hair and straightening up his shirt, made him smile. It reminded of the times when he'd had a mother—however unbiological she might've been.

Nearly an hour later, all the kids had left—their mothers thankfully gone with them, and Ken was left wistfully staring after them. The sun was setting, and once the blanket of darkness was firmly in place, he'd have to set out on a mission. The soccer played let out a heavy sigh. He really wasn't in the mood to go out tonight. All he wanted to do was curl up in his bed and sleep—just curl up on his bed and have a good, dreamless sleep…because his dreams were just as accursed as his reality.

Shivering slightly, Ken expertly dribbled the ball along, jogging around the field a few times to clear his mind. He stopped when a rather unsteadying vertigo seized him. Wincing and losing his balance, he found himself flat on the ground, eyes squeezed shut against the whirling visage. Then, the strangest urge to hurl overcame him and, mustering whatever strength he had left in him, Ken turned so that he was on his stomach and let the contents of his stomach spill forward. He groaned a bit, choking on the substance, and dug his hands into the cool grass to steel himself. His hands were caked with mud by then, but he was too sick to care, as he brought up his hands to his mouth and brushed at it disgustedly. He left a stark trail of brown against his sallow face.

Ken licked his lips. They were chapped, cut by when he'd tried to hold in his vomit. The brunette rose to his feet and again tried to close his eyes to clear his head. Once more, he felt the world around him begin to spin. He would've deemed the entire experience beautiful—comparing it to a child's kaleidoscope, perhaps—if not for the fact that he felt as if that same kaleidoscope had been bashed against his head twenty times over.

He brought his hand to his head and stayed standing where he was for a few seconds, his breath quick and shallow. When that wasn't enough, he brought up his other hand and rubbed it absently against his eyes. He hated feeling sick—moreso because he wasn't used to the sensation. Ken had, for the greater part of his life, enjoyed the benefits of a ridiculously strong immune system. It came from his routine of vigorous exercise and healthy diets, he'd been told. But having a good resistance to disease wasn't always a good thing. For one, when he _did_ fall sick, he fell _hard_. His body wasn't used to the feeling and reacted oddly to it. Ken always knew when he was falling ill because he'd get the strongest of headaches. Headaches, yes, but vertigo? Ken had never actually had to deal with dizzy spells, especially not when he was playing soccer—or as a result of it.

"Better get home soon…"

* * *

Soaked to the bone with sweat, this time a result of his shaking body and smoldering temperature, Ken smacked his jeans feverishly for his keys. Somehow, he wasn't sure how, Ken had managed to gather up all the soccer balls he brought to practice, slick them over his shoulder, and trudge all the way to the Koneko. He should've called Youji, his common sense had told him, Youji or Aya…but, he'd had the strangest idea that he shouldn't be bothering the two when they'd be preparing for the mission. Missions came before his life, after all.

Unable to find his keys, and doubting he'd be able to use them even if he did, Ken banged his fist weakly against the Koneko's door just as a few drops of rain began to fall from the sky. No one answered. Ken debated standing out in the rain, wondering if that would ease the heat from his body. It was an odd sensation—being both stiflingly hot and frightfully cold at the same time. And Ken would've surely chosen to stay outside and cool off, had he not known that would make things worse.

Clumsily pulling out his cell phone, he dialed the Koneko's number. Absently, he pondered—through a haze—why the Koneko was closed. Even the metal sheathing had been pulled over the glass window, and it was only six in the afternoon. Aya usually kept the store open at least until eight—and that was because most older people came by around seven, after they'd been let out from work. Somewhere in his disorientated state, Ken vaguely realized that someone had answered his call. "Hello?"

He felt himself smile. "Hey, Aya-kun."

Ken could almost see Aya frown. The redhead did that when he wasn't particularly sure about something. He detected a hint of hesitation in Aya's answer. "Ken. Where are you?"

"Outside." Ken tried to clear his throat. His voice was noticeably hoarse.

"Come inside, then. Why are you wasting time like this, Ken?" He sounded exasperated. Ken hated it when Aya was upset with him. Frowning, Ken nodded mutely at Aya—apparently not realizing that the redhead couldn't see the motion—and clicked off his phone.

He looked about himself slowly, the action taxing in itself, and made his way towards a bench a little to the right of the store. It felt as if he were walking on air…each footstep he took never seemed to touch the ground—they faded under him—and the water…the water that fell from above was cool. Cool and refreshing. Refreshing and purging.

* * *

Youji was not in the best of moods. After Ken had gone off to coach his team, Omi had volunteered to cook for the evening and Aya had—as he often did—disappeared without a word. Of course, that left him to work the store for the rest of the afternoon. Not that he minded, but he wished someone'd told him that was what he'd be doing. He would've thought of a way to get out of it, then. He paid only slight attention to the man standing primly before a green map—he might've been interested in the forecast a bit more if the forecaster had been wearing, say, a miniskirt, tanktop, and had undergone a sex-change operation. Not that he minded men that much…it was just that that particular man was too uptight. Very reminiscent of their leader. Not as attractive, though. Oh no…

"Speak of the devil."

Aya cast Youji a mild look, raising his eyebrow minutely to show that he'd heard the comment, and didn't care, and pushed a bit roughly past him. "Ken's not back yet?"

A feline grin graced Youji's lips. "Is that concern I hear, O fearless leader?"

Aya's lips tightened and his posture stiffened, "He's usually here by now, is what I mean. There's a mission tonight in case you'd forgotten, and I was hoping to run through it at least once."

"Ah…yes, of course. Omi's here, too, in case you wanted to know."

Aya glared. "I saw his bike outside. I knew he was in."

"Either way," Youji began, nodding towards the television, "Kenken had better hurry. There's a storm forecasted to hit tonight. Mission strategy's gonna have to change a bit. Can't have Omi standing at the top of a building with an antenna during a lightning storm, can we?"

Aya shook his head. "I might have to contact Manx about it. Close the store."

Youji saluted Aya and rather leisurely headed outside to bring down the steel covering over the glass window. When he walked back inside, he glanced bemusedly at Aya. "Ne, Aya-kun…its already started raining. Shouldn't we pick up Ken? He might catch a cold, after all."

But Aya waved Youji away. "Go find Omi and brief him about the probable change in plans. I'll be upstairs."

Half an hour later, Ken still wasn't home. By then, they were all more than a little worried, mostly because Ken had an innate habit of informing everyone of where he was going. "What if he ran into Schwartz?"

That was Omi. And well, it was a possibility. Ken did have a knack for getting in trouble with that Schwartz fellow, Schulidich.

"I doubt it." Aya crossed the threshold into the kitchen, "They'd have already called to taunt us about it."

Youji nodded and was about to speak when a vibrant ring echoed through the room. Omi had already dived towards the cordless and was giving it an odd look, when Aya eased his cell-phone out of his pocket and glanced at the number speculatively. He paused then, and a look of annoyance crossed his pale features. Youji figured that if Aya had been an animal, he would've growled (not that he didn't do _that_ already…)

"Hello?"

Youji studied his leader's expression curiously. He saw, rather quickly, the look of exasperation fade into one of mild concern. Aya wasn't the type to switch moods rapidly, unless he were going from annoyed to pissed off. "Ken. Where are you?"

Whatever Ken said next didn't seem to sit too well with Aya. "Come on in, then. Why are you wasting time like this?"

Youji let out a silent whistle and glanced at Omi. The boy matched his stare evenly, eyes shining sympathetically towards Ken. Youji was distracted from Omi by Aya, who had opened his mouth as if to speak, begun to sputter the first lines of his sentence, and worn a look of utter surprise when Ken—Youji guessed—hung up on him. He could vaguely hear the dial-tone beeping over the silence of the room.

Omi spun around quickly, turning his attention to the stove and Youji, very wisely, chose to follow the example. Aya remained where he was, stricken into silence, and glaring at his cell-phone with a vengeance. Youji figured the machine would soon be dust if someone didn't pry it from his fingertips and, rather than have his neck replace the phone, he decided to send Omi on the mission. The genki youth quietly approached Aya, soft expression in place, and gently pressed his hands over Aya's tense fingers. Omi was surprised, actually, to note the force with which Aya had been holding the communications device captive. The redhead released it, however, when he realized that was what Omi had been after. "So…he's here?"

Aya shrugged and when he spoke, the restrained anger was evident. "He might've been."

They ate dinner in silence, Omi only occasionally trying to brighten the atmosphere by speaking of his new computer teachers, and Youji playing along by mercilessly teasing the teen. It was a normal, albeit slightly tenser, dinner between them. And then, Aya's phone rang again. The minute he heard it go off, Aya glared at the device with such fervor, that Youji figured Aya could've impressed Prodigy by using his mind to burst it to bits.

Finally, Omi eased himself from his chair and reached for Aya's phone. "Hello?"

* * *

Youji pulled up the store's metal sheathing and smiled at the sight of Manx's finely shaped calves. "Why hello there, fair lady."

Manx, closing her crimson umbrella, walked carelessly past Youji and thrust the offending item against his chest, at which point Youji indignantly muttered that his shirt was dry-clean only. She offered Omi a warm smile and Aya a formal nod. Then, just as Youji was getting ready to close the door behind her, she asked, "Is there any particular reason why Siberian is sitting outside, dozing in the freezing rain?"

Omi, Aya, and Youji's twin expressions of bewilderment were enough to tell her that they hadn't known their comrade was outside, drenched to the bone in cold rain.

"Ken?" Youji asked, wondering if Manx had maybe mistaken Ken for someone else. Manx nodded.

"He has his soccer gear with him."

Omi, with an open-mouthed expression, was the first to surrender to curiosity and walk outside. It only took him one glance towards Ken to know that his friend was neither dozing, nor in any shape to attend a mission. Raising his voice he called to Youji and Aya for help. "Ne, Youji-kun, Aya-kun, he's burning up. Hurry up—get him inside!"

The two young men reacted quickly and, while Youji thrust up the remaining coverlet of the shop with a quick push, Aya went outside to retrieve Ken. He walked back inside, slightly wet, with a cold, pale, soaked Ken. Youji's eyes went wide at the sight and he rushed towards the brunette, hand flying immediately to Ken's forehead. He was expecting for the boy to be cold to the touch—that was certainly how he looked to be—but Ken was so hot that Youji pulled his hand away almost instantly.

His puzzlement was evident in his voice. "What the hell was he doing outside?!"

Omi, who had come in behind Aya, shivered slightly at the contact of his wet clothes against his skin, and could only imagine how Ken might be feeling. Youji, seeing his discomfort, extended his arms and brought the trembling mass of Omi's body against him. The boy's skin was pink and his lips red from the cold. Youji licked his own lips and looked back towards Ken.

Aya had sat down on a chair, depositing Ken in his lap, and was checking the soccer player's pulse with a muted expression. "Fever definitely," he murmured, "he'll be lucky if he gets away with pneumonia."

In Youji's arms, Omi whimpered. The russet-haired man ruffled Omi's hair affectionately. "Don't worry about it, Omittichi—he'll be all right."

"I don't mean to be the evil witch of the scenario, but the mission is still on for tonight. I understand that Ken won't attend, he's excused from this mission, but you've all agreed prior to this. Contacts have been made and payments offered; you can't all sit this one out. It's too late for that."

Youji loosened his grip on Omi and stepped forward. "I'll stay with him."

"Negative." Manx shook thick red curls from left to right. "I need you and Bombay on this one. Bombay is indispensable regardless. We need him to crack the alarm system and hack into the company's database. I need you to take out the target. The cameras are satellite operated and, although Bombay'll be able to overrun the systems and disable them for a while, there's not a definite chance you'll be able to near the target without being tagged by the camera. I'd rather not risk a close-range attack this time. Your wire's essential to this mission."

"What about Aya-kun, Manx-san?"

Manx cast the brooding youth a perfunctory glance. "He's not necessary on this mission. There's only one target to take out, 6—10 bodyguards at most. It's at night, so there aren't many security officials nearby since nothing in the building—other than the target itself—is valuable. It's up to him."

Omi bit his lip, "Aya-kun? Will you?"

A deep red head bobbed up and down in agreement.

"All right then, Bombay, Balinese—here are the mission plans; these are blueprints of the building—that's for you Balinese and these," Manx shuffled through a folder full of pink sheets, "these are for you, Bombay. Possible codes and decoding elements. Lists of family names and hobbies, in case you think they might be necessary in cracking the codes. Or, if you have the need to blackmail Yamaguchi into submission."

* * *

He was trembling. Hell—he wasn't trembling, he was shuddering. Aya found that he couldn't quite look at Ken without wincing at the brunette's state. He was soaked—as he had been when they'd found him—from head to toe in a mixture of cold sweat, icy rainwater, and mud.

Aya had been surprised to note that, despite his light appearance, Ken was a lot heavier than he looked. Youji and Omi had already left, both glancing warily at their sick friend, and Aya had decided he should take the boy to his room. He had supposed that carrying Ken up the steps wouldn't take much work—the boy was so slight and thin, after all—and had promptly reminded himself that making assumptions were hardly the way to go. Ken was _not_, by any means, light. And Aya should've known better. Ken was not simply thin; he was lean—meaning that, what Aya had mistaken for scrawniness, was in fact a healthy supply of hard, coiled muscle.

Not that Aya thought Ken was scrawny…the soccer player had quite the appealing body.

Aya wrapped his arms about Ken's waist, pressing the brunette close to him, and took the steps as fast as he could without dropping him. He was getting wet at their closeness, the water seeping from Ken's clothes into his. But he found that he didn't mind…he actually cherished the closeness—the warmth Ken's sick body radiated.

He made it to his room without much trouble, having to stop only twice to readjust Ken's weight, and eased the door open quietly. Aya was careful as he lowered Ken against his bed, and—with all the tenderness of a parent—gently undid Ken's sneakers. That was when he noticed something was out of place. Ken's sneakers were muddy—fact which was understandable, but intermixed with the dark brown was something of a fainter, lighter hue. Something he might've passed off as dirt had he not been so used to it...

Taking ahold of Ken's sneaker, Aya walked noiselessly towards the corner of his room and turned on the light. He leaned his face close, studying the caked appearance of the mud. He rotated the shoe in his hands and paused when his eyes alighted on another oddly colored mark. This one was brighter, wetter—and Aya hated that he recognized what it was…he hated that he knew that somehow—and for some reason, Ken had been bleeding.

He returned to the brunette's side then, deciding that the wet clothes would only help to make Ken sicker, and made easy work of his shirt when his eyes fell once more upon a rust-colored mar. He had been about to toss it on the floor—it looked as if it had lived three generations too long—when his eyes had been drawn to the stain. Hell, Aya figured he'd been seeing so much blood lately that it was only natural that he be aroused by its presence. Blood, to him, meant death and nightmares. And so, his eyes had grown sharp to the substance.

Having determined that Ken had, in fact, been bleeding, Aya thought back to Omi's earlier suggestion. Perhaps Ken _had_ run into Mastermind. That would explain the blood…but…

Aya eased himself beside Ken, and wrapped his arms about the lithe man's torso. Lifting him up slightly, he looked over Ken's chest, back, and abdomen. No blood. No marks. Aside from faint, scattered scars and the more pronounced fire-induced licks of healed skin, Ken showed no indication of having been in a fight—or of having bled, for that matter. Aya glanced back towards the shirt. He picked it up gingerly and stood, once more heading towards the lamp in the corner, the only source of light in the room. There, he narrowed his eyes as he inspected the stain. It was dry; old, he figured, but it certainly had been made today. There was no doubt about _that._ He was about to give up on his paranoiac antics, when the proximity of the shirt to his nostrils made him recoil. His eyes narrowed.

Now positively suspicious, he stalked into his adjoining bathroom, thankful for the bright phosphorescent lighting, and draped the shirt over the sink. What the dim light of his room had hidden, the stark lights of his bathroom made known—along with the faint stains of blood on Ken's shirt, were obvious marks of where he had thrown up. Through the open door, Aya glanced back towards his partner, concern evident in his troubled features. "What happened, Ken?"

* * *

_Reviews? Comments?_


	2. In Disbelief

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos  
**Chapter 2 -- In Disbelief  
_

* * *

Ken coughed. Or, tried to. All he managed was a weak gargling sound. It sounded as if he were choking. Which would explain why Aya, who had been nodding off in a chair by the bed, rushed over to his side. "Ken?"

The brunette coughed once more, this time bringing up a shaky hand to rub at his dry lips, and was surprised when steadying fingertips splayed themselves about his back. Pausing, he turned to his right and, blinking, found himself face to face with two concerned violet orbs. He jumped.

"Aya-kun!"

Aya raised one pale eyebrow. Ken blushed despite himself. "What are you doing here?"

"You're in my room, Hidaka."

Ken's chocolate eyes widened. Then, as if disbelieving, he whisked his head from left to right, wincing only seconds after doing so. Groaning, he lifted his land to his mouth and frantically tried to escape the confines of Aya's bed. The same ill feeling of the day before was working its way up his throat, and he didn't have the strength to fight it. Guessing what it was Ken needed to do, Aya gave his sheets a fierce tug and watched as the soccer player made a mad—albeit unsteady—dash to the bathroom. A few seconds later, the retching sounds began.

Aya tossed a thoughtful glance at the shirt Ken'd worn the day before. He'd been pondering at the blood on it all night…and he hadn't slept much on account of it. Aya didn't remember a time when he'd lost sleep over anyone that wasn't his sister…he hadn't thought he was capable of the fact anymore—

Just as Aya's subconscious made the trek back to the time of his parents' deaths and his sister's accident, Ken stumbled back into the room, face pale and drawn. He attempted to smile at Aya, but succeeded only in mustering a pained expression. "Don't worry about it…I'm okay."

As far as Aya could see, Ken was anything _but _okay—but he doubted the chocolate-haired youth would care much for his evaluation.

Rather slowly, Ken began making his way back to Aya's bed, holding onto whatever lay close-by to keep his balance, until the only thing within his reach was Aya himself. The normally stoic redhead was amazingly receptive to Ken's needs, shifting so that the younger boy could grab onto his shoulder…and Ken did. "Man…I feel like shit."

"You threw up blood."

Ken, who had only just managed a sitting position on the bed, raised weary eyes toward his leader. A light smile caressed his lips. "Really, now?"

The careless words seemed to infuriate Aya—who, until the moment—hadn't known the cheerful brunette could be anything but.

Ken waved a dismissive wave before the other man, "Relax, Aya…it's nothing serious."

"Throwing up blood? Ken what are you—"

Another dismissive wave. "It's nothing. Happens every now and then."

Aya looked aghast—fact which was ghastly in itself. Ken, bemused, let his eyes linger on the tall man. "It's not something that should be taken lightly, Hidaka."

Sitting up, Ken coughed and let a slight shiver run through him before returning his gaze towards the elder man. "How'd you know I threw up, anyway?"

Aya jerked his head towards a chair on the left-hand side of the room. There, obscured only slightly by the darkness in which the room was bathed, was Ken's shirt. The brunette blushed, his tan skin deepening to the color of warm mocha. He was startled, however, when Aya—rather delicately—reached out and, brushing away his bangs, placed a soft hand at his forehead. "You're still burning up."

Ken chuckled. "How'd I get home, anyway?"

"We'd all like to find out."

Ken looked around. "Oi, where are…Omi and—and Youji?"

Aya turned away, crimson locks rearranging themselves about his face as he did so, and walked away until he was standing before his window. Placing a pale hand by the cooling glass, he replied, "On that mission."

Ken's attention was robbed for a moment. Standing beside the window, with moonlight streaming lazily in, Aya so resembled a melancholy angel that Ken thought he might embarrass himself by saying so. As it was, Ken was barely to keep from staring straight at the redhead's lithe frame. He was beautiful…and while that wasn't a word Ken would normally use to describe a man, it was certainly fitting for Aya.

Aya turned then, eyes locking with Ken's, and cocked his head curiously to the side. "Why are you looking at me?"

Blushing, Ken quickly looked away. He turned his focus to his intertwined hands and sighed. He hadn't meant to stare—and he normally wouldn't've, but he hadn't been able to look away from the tall man...he'd been too intoxicating. "Sorry."

A pale red eyebrow rose. "Well? Why were you?"

Reluctantly, the brunette raised his head. "I…I—I always look at someone when I speak. It's rude not to, Aya."

"It's also rude to maintain eye-contact on something other than a person's eyes."

Ken's cheeks burned in embarrassment. Fidgeting, he turned away from Aya and let his eyes travel over his bedroom instead. "Why did Youji and Omi go alone on the mission?"

Aya shrugged. "Manx didn't think close-range fighters were necessary."

Now it was Ken's turn to raise his eyebrows, "Manx didn't want us on the mission?"

Violet eyes met chocolate. Aya pressed his lips into a thin line, "It was more along the lines of, we were short one assassin, and neither Bombay or Balinese felt comfortable leaving him alone."

_Leaving him alone…?_

Ken frowned slightly, "Omi or Youji…? And you?"

Another shrug. "It's raining."

Ken struggled to sit himself up and precariously balanced himself on Aya's bed to try and get a glimpse out the window. "Yeah. It is. It's been raining all day—"

"I hate rain."

"Huh?" Ken side-glanced Aya, only to find him staring wistfully out the window, knuckles white at being clenched so roughly. And then, "Me too. Soccer's impossible in rain."

Violet eyes turned incredulously towards him. "You always manage to turn everything into soccer, don't you?"

The brunette shrugged. "It's what I like to do. So I like to talk about what I like to do. Don't you?"

Aya gave a half-hearted nod, but Ken's flame had already been ignited, "Ne, Aya—wouldn't you like to go out—you know, play soccer…go out and run…I don't know. Wouldn't you?"

During his excited rant, Ken had sat up halfway and seemed ready to get up and grab his soccer gear should Aya answer that yes, he would indeed like to go outside and play soccer.

Placing a smooth hand at Ken's breastbone, Aya gently pushed the energetic boy back down. "You're sick, Ken."

Ken heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Just because of the blood? Let it go, Aya. It's normal for someone like me."

Aya threw Ken a skeptical glare. He wasn't particularly sure how throwing up blood—regardless of the situation—could possibly be considered a normal condition. "C'mon, Aya. It's because I'm so athletic. Sometimes I upset my stomach, is all. It's because I run so much."

"Ken—" Aya's voice had taken a warning tone, and Ken was only partially looking forward to listening what would escape his leader's lips. His other side—however masochistic it may be—cared very little for what Aya could say; it was too busy concentrating on the fact that the redhead was keeping him company—and not a silent, gruff company, but a comfortable one.

"Have you ever been to a doctor about it?"

A horrified look crossed the brunette's face. "No. I hate doctors. Hate them. God…I hate them."

Aya seemed slightly surprised at the fervency with which Ken denounced his hatred of all physicians. "Then how do you know it's harmless?"

Ken rolled his eyes and felt his world spin out of control because of it—he brought up a shaky hand to rub at his forehead before speaking. "Because it's been around forever. Kase used to nag me about it, too. But I was always fine…even Coach didn't care much about it."

"I'm not nagging."

Ken shot Aya a poignant look from behind his interlaced fingertips. "Yes you are. And besides…It never hurts afterwards."

Aya didn't seem convinced. As a matter of fact, he seemed even more perturbed at the confession. "It never hurts _afterwards?_ So it hurts while you do it?"

Ken brought down his gaze. "It…It doesn't _hurt_, Aya…it's just uncomfortable. I mean," Ken's chocolate eyes met Aya's own, "no one likes to throw up…"

"Yes. But most people don't normally throw up blood."

"Aya…let it go. It's nothing fatal. I'm still alive, aren't I?"

The last part of Ken's sentence was said bitterly and, Aya—always having thought of the brunette as a life-loving young-blooded teen, was taken aback by the sentiment. "Yes…You are."

Ken sighed and let his eyes wander over the immaculate white room. It was so sterile. So clean…so _untouched._ Almost like the redhead himself—cold, distant…unreadable. "I'm thirsty."

The words had been muttered—a subconscious thought made heard—and Ken felt his eyes widen in surprise when Aya, who had heard his request, rose and made to retrieve a glass of water. Ken smiled thankfully. He waited patiently for Aya to leave, the man's footsteps light and soundless, and the minute he was sure Aya was out of sight, let his face twist in pain. His left hand wound itself about his abdomen as his right pressed itself against his chapped lips. "Oh, God…"

It was unbearable. Pain zigzagged and shot throughout his entire body, spreading to the very tips of his fingers before returning and centering on his stomach. Ken's left hand tightened. Despite his efforts to remain upright, the brunette quickly found himself doubled over on the bed, tears oozing through his shut eyes. Fisting the sheets at his side, Ken fought the urge to vomit…it was coming on stronger—the need to release everything. He had been able to fight it before—to pretend it wasn't haunting him…but now…now he could barely hang on.

Ken crushed his hands against the sheets as a harsh wave of pain clutched at his abdomen, causing it to contract and spasm against his will. Once more the bile rose in his throat, and with it—Ken knew—the blood rose as well. And, likewise, Ken knew he would continue to throw up blood until his body so willed it…and—again—he knew that that could take as little as two days, or as much as two months. He hoped for the former…

"…Itaai…"

His head was throbbing…he could scarcely think anymore. Wait a minute…his medicine. He needed his medicine—

Not quite realizing what he was doing or where he was, Ken rolled out of bed and tried to stand. He promptly found himself sprawled on the floor, breath hitching as he found it difficult to breath. Each breath brought a sting to his chest—and each sting, in turn, triggered a spasm. Despite it all, he pushed himself on all fours and made a point of crawling towards his dresser.

His breathing was shallow by the time he made it to the opposite end of the room, but he somehow managed to bring himself up to a standing position. Holding onto the smooth surface of the bureau for all he was worth, Ken weakly pulled open the first drawer. He blinked a few times to steady himself; his vision was blackening and he felt rather dizzy.

Then, just as he was about to delve his hand into the drawer itself, he looked upwards into the attached mirror with the intention of seeing whether Aya had yet arrived. The doorway was empty, but that didn't stop Ken from catching sight of his own reflection. The brunette swallowed thickly. He could certainly understand why Aya had been worried. He looked horrible. Ken wasn't sure if it was the dim lighting in the room or his own bleary perception of the world, but he looked as if a car had run him over an infinite amount of times. His face was sallow, its color a dull jade, and his lips very easily resembled the crackled floor of an Arizona desert. "…I look like shit."

Ken brought up a shaky hand to his face, brushing away the sweaty chocolate bangs and focusing instead on his eyes. They were tired…and awfully red. Not to mention the fact that, from the little he could see, they were caked with discharge the color of dusk. Ken became so focused on his reflection that—in his fascination—he failed to note the outline of Aya's shadow framed on the pale white carpet of the room.

Bringing his forearm to his face, Ken swiped it several times against his mouth, and on his third time of doing so, felt himself precariously begin to lose his balance. Luckily enough, he managed to grab onto the handle of the top drawer before doing so, succeeding not only in staying upright, but in easing open the drawer as well.

Aya, meanwhile, was watching everything transpire with a trained eye. He hadn't quite bought the brunette's vague explanation on why he was throwing up blood and how that was a perfectly 'normal' thing. Aya knew that that type of thing was neither normal nor safe. He also knew that random soccer players didn't get the ailment from simply running. He'd have to check that out later on…

Aya's attention was momentarily grabbed when the soccer player—whom Aya had figured too sick to even move—seemed to lose his balance. The tall redhead was ready to barge into the room, amethyst eyes warning and reproachful, when Ken caught his balance once more. Aya pondered at whether he should enter the room or not. He had no time to even answer his question, however, as Ken shamelessly delved his hand into Aya's personal belongings…his underwear drawer, to be exact.

The redhead wasn't sure what to think. He didn't know what to make of anything anymore…everything seemed to be falling apart all about him…everything. He had gotten used to the fact that his sister might never awaken, that—despite all he'd sacrificed for her—she might never once more open her eyes and call him 'brother'. He understood that…and he'd come to that conclusion partially because of Ken…because the brunette had been so willing to help him forget about his troubles. His sister would always be there for him, Ken had argued once, but she would have wanted him to live out his life without the burden of her _own_ life being there to ruin his. Think about it, Ken had said, why would she want you to suffer on account of her?

"Ken?"

Ken did a perfect about face from Aya's drawer and felt himself hit the ground a moment later. Wincing, he was only slightly aware of the arms that gently encircled his waist. "I…" Ken trailed off momentarily when a mixture of soft cologne and Aya's own unique scent hit his nostrils. "I need my medicine."

"And that would be in my drawer, because…?"

Ken's chocolate brown eyes unfocused for a few seconds, and the young boy looked dizzily about him. "Your…drawer?"

Aya nodded slowly and tightened his hold on the smaller boy just as he seemed to lose consciousness. "Ken? Ken!?"

"I'm…kay—okay…I'm—" Ken closed his eyes and drew in a ragged breath. "I just…my medicine—it's in my…"

Ken trailed off as if became difficult to breath and his face twisted into an expression of pure agony. His nails dug deeply into Aya's forearm, yet the redhead scarcely showed signs of noticing. He was too worried about Ken. Too worried about the cheerful young soccer player who, in his eyes, was too full of life to ever be _this_ sick. It wasn't right. "Your medicine?"

Ken gave a curt nod and Aya tried to search the brunette's eyes for any signs of future distress. He felt awfully guilty about having to leave him alone in his room while going in search of his medicine—wherever _that_ was. Ken seemed to read his mind. "Don't…don't worry, Aya. It's…I won't," Ken chuckled dryly, action which sent him into a fit of coughing, "…die."

Disgusted by Ken's attitude, but otherwise unable to say anything more, Aya made easy work of lifting the coughing young man into his arms and towards the bed. Now, while Aya was relatively strong, his muscle build was sinewy and lithe as opposed to bulky and muscular. In other words…while Ken was a rather easy person to carry, he was also rather heavy, and Aya found himself stumbling as he reached the farther side of the room. He had gripped Ken roughly and carelessly by the waist in an effort to get there quicker, but that only resulted in Ken's repeated slipping.

"Do me a favor," the redhead began breathlessly, "next time I carry you up—if you can—wrap your legs around me."

Knowing Aya couldn't see him then—his face was firmly nestled within the juncture of Aya's warm, supple neck—Ken felt his cheeks burn and a slight smile caress his lips. Those words, regardless of how he was feeling, sent a sinful chill up his spine. Ken could only imagine how many scenarios Aya could possibly tell him—plaintively, and in that breathless voice—to wrap his legs around his body. _And I'd be glad to if I didn't think my body wouldn't react rather deliriously to that…_

Nevertheless, the next time Aya's fingertips dug slightly into his hips and gave him a boost upwards, he made sure to squeeze his legs about him…rather tightly…perhaps _too_ tightly. Aya hissed, a sharp intake of breath marring his ever-perfect persona. Ken loosened his grip. "Sorry…"

The redhead ignored Ken's apology, particularly because _he_ wasn't all that sorry about it. As a matter of fact, he had many times imagined this happening—under different circumstances, no doubt—and in all those times, there were only two things that were always consistent: the strong, arousing grasp of Ken's limbs around his abdomen, and the ardent fervor with which the brunette squirmed against his body…touching, kissing…caressing.

"Oh, God…"

Ken, snuggled up into Aya, heard the whispered plead, but could scarcely imagine it had been uttered because of him. He was too hazy to think anymore. All he wanted was to sleep…to return to that dark abyss where the only thing that hurt was his heart…where everything he yearned for became a reality…he wanted to return to the only place in which his love was purely and unequivocally reciprocated.

Finally, Aya felt his legs hit the front of his bed and, rather carefully, leaned forward until he was sure Ken's back was only centimeters from the mattress. Unfortunately, by the time that happened, Aya's body had overbalanced because of its precious cargo, and he suddenly found himself pressed along the entire length of the brunette. And said brunette's legs had only tightened about themselves as he had fallen backwards. Aya could scarcely breathe. Had he opened his eyes, he'd have seen that his fighting partner was having similar difficulties, and not exactly for different reasons.

It certainly didn't help things when Ken decided shifting his weight would be a good idea. In the end, he ended up arching his back against Aya, inadvertedly rubbing against the redhead's more sensitive regions. Aya bit his lip.

It wasn't as if Aya hadn't longed for this—for an intimate contact between the two of them. Between just Aya and Ken—no Youji to tease and flirt and no Omi to smile patiently and amusedly at them…no, just the two of them, entangled within one another's limbs, breathless from a night of passion and surrender. Honest to god, if Ken hadn't been sick, Aya would've ravaged him without a second thought. He needed the release—needed to know he was worthwhile and desired.

Apparently, in Ken's mind, his craving for Aya was enough to eliminate all traces of pain from his persona. He didn't care anymore how horribly his stomach was twisting about, so long as he could continue to feel Aya pressed so sensually, albeit innocently so, against his body. "Don't…don't leave me—alone…"

The redhead seemed startled by the words. He was also rather puzzled. Hadn't Ken wanted the medication a few minutes ago?

"So it doesn't hurt anymore?"

It was a simple question. A simple question that could just as easily be answered by a simple lie. Ken was a good enough liar. He lied to all his soccer charges each day, lied to their parents…lied to Yuriko, to Ms. Momoe…hell, he even lied to himself. Nothing was quite sacred to him anymore. So, realistically speaking, it shouldn't have been that hard for him to lie to Aya. Looking away, Ken softly answered, "No…I told you it'd—it'd fade."

"Look at me."

Ken spared the man who now had him somewhat pinned down against the bed a reluctant glance. He found, however, that he couldn't quite match Aya's even stare for more that a few seconds. He promptly averted his gaze.

"Ken—" the tone was warning, and Ken felt his cheeks burn a deeper shade on account of it. He raised wary chocolate eyes and focused them hesitantly on Aya's violet ones. He felt as though Aya were reading his mind; notion which, had he not known of Mastermind and Oracle, he would have otherwise found absolutely preposterous. Violet-hued orbs narrowed suspiciously as they scanned his face. Ken looked away once more, this time biting his lip as another wave of pinpointed pressure swept over him. There was no escape, however, as Aya's hands rose up to his chin, and gently forced his face in his direction. Drawing in a breath of air, Ken unintentionally let his eyes flutter shut. Aya's fingertips were soft against his chin, and once they'd settled on his face, they splayed outwards towards his cheeks.

Aya's digits made a point of smoothing over the entire expanse of Ken's face, tenderly gliding up and down the contours of the brunette's face. And then, rather unexpectedly, they returned to his chin and clenched it firmly in place. "Don't _ever_ lie to me."

Ken's eyes widened, and he laid there, mouth agape. Granted, he had always known the regal redhead had a penchant for loyalty, but he certainly had never thought that a simple lie—one that hadn't really been entirely voiced—would bother him so. He glanced at Aya with confused, perhaps even hurt, eyes. He hated to see the man angry at him…he really did.

When he'd first met him, Ken had been so infuriated by Aya's condescending manner that he had clocked him a good one. Certainly not the best way to begin a love affair. But Aya had been mindful of him from that point on; he'd realized not to underestimate the brunette on basis of his looks and attitude. Ken, however, had been simmering in silent misery. It wasn't that Aya _avoided_ him—it was impossible to completely steer clear of someone you shared a house with—but he certainly made a point of ignoring him. By nature, Ken wasn't the type of person who enjoyed being ignored. Like Youji, he thrived on the feel of all eyes on him—it made him feel energized, undefeatable, almost. And, the same was true inversely. If he were to be disregarded, his morale would drop, his shoulders sag, and his spirits plummet. Sadly, from the minute he had entered the Koneko, everyone had thought it wise to look away from the 'hot-tempered' assassin. And…realistically speaking, Ken wasn't _all_ that hot-tempered. He just happened to be rather impulsive. He _did_ regret his actions, though, and—apparently—they had all forgotten that he _had_, in fact, apologized to the stoic redhead for having knocked him unconscious. Not that Aya had _cared_…No, he had simply walked away, seeming ridiculously annoyed that Ken had even _dared_ to bother him over that trifling a thing.

At first, Ken had _feared_ making Abyssinian angry. It was fair enough…the man was nearly a foot taller than he was, had a glare worth waking the dead, and to top it all off, was an assassin capable of slicing him to pieces. As time wore on, however, Ken came to acquire a respect for the man that was unmatched by any of his teammates. Ken _admired_ Aya; and, eventually, rather than being afraid of irritating the man, he realized that little by little, his motivation to keep out of Aya's way was different…he realized that, instead of wanting to save himself the personal humiliation and physical pain, he wanted Aya to be proud of _him_—he wanted Aya to admire _him_…to admire him like he had for so long.

And slowly but surely, he had made it a habit to improve his ingrained idiosyncrasies—he had curved his habit of speaking with his mouth full, had made an effort to avoid walking inside the house with his muddy soccer cleats, and had even tried cooking…once…but that hadn't turned out all that well…

And now…to see the man he had so tried to make proud of him, scowl and flash his eyes dangerously, Ken couldn't help but let the tears cascade through his face…He couldn't help but let them flow down his cheeks, leaving a bright pink path in their wake. Unintentionally, he sniffled, the sound more akin to a sob than a mere intake of breath, and tried to shake Aya's hand from his wrists so that he might wipe the tears from his eyes.

"Lemme go, Aya."

Ken shook futilely against his captor and once more repeated his plead. "C'mon….Aya—please?"

Whether or not Aya heard him was a mystery. Straddled as he was, Ken very hesitantly raised doleful cocoa eyes to find a pair of luscious violet ones returning his stare. Yet, unlike their usual state, they were neither narrowed nor contorted in a crinkling scowl. Rather, they were gazing at him rather intently—a bit forlornly perhaps—and slowly taking in the whole of his face. They skimmed upwards, settling on his unruly mahogany mane for a few seconds, before descending once more, this time studying his high, well-rounded cheekbones…the well-defined jaw…the lively, vibrating pulse of his jugular just a few inches beneath …And, on his trek back, he skipped over Ken's lips entirely, focusing abstractly on the boy's nose instead, smiling absently to himself as he took in the childish pixie nose.

At that particular point in time, Ken was experiencing a rather severe hyperventilation problem. Unnerved but admittedly aroused by the redhead's unabashed perusal of his face, Ken unconsciously licked his lips. It was a bad move…or a good one—

The fact was, Aya's eyes were drawn to the move. In an instant they had snapped to, and remained focused on, the fleshy tip of Ken's tongue. He swallowed thickly. Laying as they were, face to face—chest to chest, Aya was tempted to assume the entire situation was just another fantasy playing out in the back of his mind, product of yet another stressful mission, or an accidental intake of meat too soon before the retreat to bed.

Ken's cheeks burned a dark red when he realized Aya was making no apparent attempt at extricating himself from his body…or from curbing his eyes. And, despite his regular egotistic need to be seen, Ken was beginning to become more than intimidated by it…to put it plainly, certain stirrings in his groin told him he had better get Aya off him soon before the redhead either _felt_ him, or he just threw himself against his leader in reckless abandon. Just thinking about the latter made his cheeks burn a darker auburn.

Aya wasn't really helping much either, what with his intense eyes practically boring into Ken's subconscious. How they ended up in that position, Ken didn't rightly know, but he was willing to bet that—were he to suggest an illicit affair at that moment—there would be more than one eager participant.

Actually, Ken was just a slight bit unsettled at Aya's display. The man wasn't normally the type to be open—much less to allow himself rampant access to Ken's face. "Aya…?"

And then…the most surprising of things happened—staring into his eyes as he was, Aya's eyebrows suddenly furrowed together. A series of wrinkles appeared on his forehead and he pulled back from the brunette roughly and suddenly. He sat back on his heels, drawing in a quick breath and looking about himself a bit bewilderedly, before returning his attention the figure sprawled worriedly on his bed. His eyes snapped towards his bedside clock—and, if possible, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly…almost…but Ken had so long been stealing glances at Aya that the action was all but obvious to him.

Aya pulled himself away entirely from the bed, taking backward steps until his back hit the very wood of his locked door. _Locked?_ Aya cast the closed door a disoriented glance. When had he locked the door?

And, like a man suddenly recovering from amnesia, Aya felt a bold realization strike him across the face. It was twelve midnight—a little after, actually—and for the first time since the day he'd become an assassin, Aya Fujimiya was not at his sister's bedside.

For the first time in two years, Aya Fujimiya had completely forgotten about his daily, compulsory visit to his only kin…

He had forgotten…and he didn't regret it.

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_Reviews, Comments?_


	3. To Fear

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos**  
Chapter 3—To Desire_

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Aya glanced sullenly at his reflection. He looked like shit. It was almost as if the gods above were paying him vengeance for having always been so aesthetically immaculate. It wasn't that he was particularly vain, either. Aya didn't pay nearly as much attention to his physical persona as Youji did. As a matter of fact, the redhead never really spent any time in front of the mirror—not looking at himself, at least. What _did_ he look at when he was trying to ignore his reflection? He looked at Abyssinian…he looked at the morose picture that was his alter-ego. But did he ever look at Ran? No…never. He would never chance a glimpse into what he was, and how his past could've played out otherwise… 

Regardless, Aya's weary appearance was well accounted for. After what had happened with Ken the night before, Aya had found it damn near impossible to get back to sleep. What had transpired hadn't been nearly as disturbing to Aya as what _hadn't._ He had been haunted the entire night by dreams that left him sweat-drenched and very much unsatisfied. Up until last night, Aya couldn't particularly remember a time when he had been so deeply unsettled. Even as a teenager, Aya hadn't ever been as sexually troubled as he had been yesterday. Hell, he'd been having more sexual urges since he'd moved in with the others than he'd had in his entire lifetime before that. Truth was, Ken had a way of messing with him. Aya could no longer count the times in which he'd woken up, a sticky mess between his legs, and found himself staring at the product of such a reaction the entire day. Ken Hidaka was the most unintentionally sensual man on the planet. Though, were he prompted, Ken would've said the same about the redhead.

Almost instantly, Aya was reminded of the time he had sent Ken off to do chores. Although Omi was usually in charge of things around the house—being that Ken was mostly occupied with soccer duties and whatnot—the blonde youth had been ill that weekend, and Youji had, as usual, not been much help, announcing a general leave of absence instead, proclaiming the need to take care of _his _Omittichi. At the time, Aya hadn't been entirely aware of how large a favor he was asking of the less than eloquent brunette. Seemingly, he'd forgotten Ken's absolute absentmindedness when it came to all things logical.

Remarkably enough, Ken's apparent lack of coordination didn't mirror his effort as he had been more than willing to take on the greater part of the responsibilities around the house at Omi's illness. As a matter of fact, burned lasagna had become the norm at the Koneko that week.

The first of Ken's tasks had been to mown the lawn. Ken decided that that sounded easy enough. What could possibly be so hard about running a motored device back and forth a patch of grass? Apparently, Ken forgot he was thinking of _himself, _and knowing his lack of grace, he should've known that in his mowing the lawn—in ninety degree weather, no less—things _were_ liable to get ugly. Especially if a certain dark-haired, hot-blooded teen had donned an old, holey t-shirt and snug-fitting jeans for the job.

It had taken Ken a record-time of thirty minutes to figure out how to start the engine of the mower, and another twenty to realize it was out of gas. By the time he had given up trying to work the 'damned machine,' it was already three in the afternoon and Ken had, quite unwittingly, missed soccer practice. Needless to say, he was not pleased by the fact. Not at all…

And how did he take out his aggression?

By having soccer practice right there, on the front lawn, for everyone to see—shirtless and in shorts worthy of making Marilyn Monroe blush. Sometimes Aya wondered if Ken even _had_ a sense of shame; the youth certainly resembled Youji to a fault, sometimes. Regardless, Ken had spent the entire afternoon angrily kicking around a semi-deflated soccer ball, and Aya had spent the entire afternoon watching him. He'd had more than one illicit stirring in his groin that night…

He was sure a thousand other girls had as well.

As it was, Aya sometimes wondered about Ken. The young man was, after all, a very manly teen—he was vibrant, temperamental, and very much the soccer fanatic. For all he cared, Ken was the very epitome of the perfect guy. He was fun-loving, attractive, and friendly…he had mischievous brown eyes that mirrored every emotion without flaw—they flashed in anger, softened with a smile, and crinkled in laughter. Ken Hidaka was a woman's man…and yet—

And yet, Ken had a habit of doing certain things that made him wonder. At the Koneko, for one, Aya noticed that he wasn't particularly fond of letting the girls touch him. As a matter of fact, he tried to avoid their contact as much as he could, very politely extricating himself whenever he was engaged in their grip. And that was the part that struck Aya as odd. Ken was, and had always been—in his eyes—a very 'touchy-feely' kind of guy. And it wasn't in the perverted way, either. Ken was the type to offer a hug to anyone he damned felt needed it; he was a great comforter, and despite his quick tongue, a great listener, as well. So then, if he was so quick to hug, high-five, and push around his soccer buddies (Ken had managed to construct somewhat of an amateur, impromptu soccer team that met and played every Wednesday night) why was he so hesitant to do the same with any girl he met at the shop? Or one that flirted with him at the mall?

Honestly speaking, Aya had only ever seen Ken with one girl, and that had been Yuriko. Even then, however, Ken's relationship with the girl had been strained—almost as if the two were brothers as opposed to a couple. It had been odd, and strangely relieving. Aya had, much to his own chagrin, burned with jealous fury when Ken had disappeared an entire week—not even reporting for work—to spend time with his girlfriend, Yuriko. When Aya had finally gotten a hold of the brunette, he had unleashed all his jealousy and hurt in anger. He had damn near punched Ken all the way to Alabama.

However, the oddest of things occurred when he actually _met_ Yuriko. Aya found that, despite the bubbling anger that still lingered on his part for Ken just below the surface, he didn't feel at all threatened by Yuriko's presence. It was almost as if, after seeing the two together, he just knew that nothing would come of the relationship…he knew they weren't meant for each other, and, as such, felt very little ire for Yuriko. She was very pretty, yes, he would admit, in the voluptuous sense of the word. Yuriko was, to be put mildly, the type of girl every average guy wished he could have. She was Ken's water drop. The two were alike to a fault. And perhaps that was why things couldn't work out…because they were so outwardly familiar, yet so inwardly different. Ken had secrets he could never share with Yuriko. Whether or not she would trust him after a confession wasn't the issue; the fact was, if he ever _were_ to talk of all the deeds and sins he'd committed, Yuriko would not only lose faith in him, she'd _fear_ him as well. And, as dangerous as Aya knew Ken could be, the redhead also knew that he'd never fear the teen. Ken loved life too much to throw it away without a second thought…and that was something Yuriko would've never understood if she had known the truth. She would never have understood that Ken's decision to become a murderer had been decided simply because, he loved life—a person's life—too much to allow it to be unjustly sacrificed. And thus, he'd taken on the blame himself…to protect life by slaying it.

And it was things like that…coupled with Ken's almost oblivious nature, that made him such a sensual specimen. It was like that day in the shop—when he had sliced his hand. Ken had thought nothing of popping his finger into his mouth…he hadn't realized how positively arousing that mere action had been, and how much of a field-day Freud would've had at the simple sight. It was Ken's naively sexual prowess that made him so attractive…it was the fact that he didn't know how sexy he was, or how positively sensual he could be, that added to his allure. Ken was a woman's man, yes…but he could very well be a man's man as well.

Aya sighed and rubbed the back of his palms against his eyes. It was things like that that made Aya hate his scrutinizing nature. Aya could very well make a career out of studying Ken. A fine profession that would be. He could see it now—Redhead Accused of Stalking, Young Brunette to Sue.

Actually, Aya wasn't sure how Ken _would_ react if he were to know how he felt. He doubted it'd be a welcome sentiment. As generous and gentle as Ken could be, Aya wasn't sure that a confession from a gay teammate would be well-received. Well…unless Ken himself was gay, fact which—in itself—was unlikely. Not to mention that, if there _was_ something seriously wrong with Ken, his feelings for the boy certainly wouldn't count for much.

Aya frowned. He was back to _that_ subject again. Part of the reason he hadn't been able to speak the night before—other than Ken's luxurious display of sexuality—had been the blood. Aya had, after abandoning his own room, gone on an extensive search through the boy's clothes and found out one of two things: first, Ken was hardly a neat freak, and second—there were at least three other articles of clothing that were stained with blood.

Aya had then, after realizing that beckoning sleep was a ridiculous thing to try and do, gone online and searched on the probabilities of throwing up blood in relation to soccer. He hadn't found much. What he _had_ found, was a high count of cancer on all his search lists. He'd bit his lip and cursed inwardly. Ken certainly displayed all the symptoms of stomach cancer; all Aya guessed was left to do was search on his medical background—meaning, the occurrence of such an illness on his family. He doubted Ken would be willing to talk about his past. The brunette was as private about such things as he was about his sister.

The only other possible option that had come up with vomiting blood had been arsenic and food poisoning. And, although Aya knew Ken had a penchant for eating the worst of foods, he didn't think that was a probability. And arsenic poisoning? Well…that would've been a likely excuse if Ken had run into Mastermind—which he _hadn't_—and if he hadn't had medicine for his ailment (which, Aya discovered after retreating to the brunette's room, was only Advil) or known what to take for it, for that matter.

He was worried about him. Aya ran a shaky hand through disheveled crimson locks. God, was he worried.

"Aya?"

The young man spun around to find a pair of tired chocolate eyes staring curiously in his direction. Aya raked violet eyes over Ken's thin, slightly haunched form and raised an irritated eyebrow. "You shouldn't be up."

Ken shrugged and teetered slightly on his feet, "I told you it wasn't a big deal."

Another eyebrow rose. "You nearly died last night."

Ken paused in his retort. Had he heard reproach in that last sentence? Steadying himself and letting his hands tighten about the frame of the door, Ken responded. "I was just sick from the rain. You're being melodramatic, Aya. Speaking of which," Ken's eyes twinkled mischievously, "How come the shop's not open?"

Ken didn't know what he was expecting. Perhaps a surprised expression followed by an annoyed curse. He had, for all the world, sworn that Aya hadn't known the shop was even closed. Aya simply shrugged, "I decided it should be closed."

Ken's mouth dropped open. "But—but…Aya!"

The usually stoic youth pursed his lips at the image of a stuttering Ken. It was hardly flattering. Aya told him so. A thick coral rose in the boy's cheeks. "But—But that's not fair! Your damned alarm clock woke me up at freakin' five in the morning!"

Aya found it hard to resist smirking at that. Fact which only made the brunette's eyes widen even more. "Aya! This isn't funny—now I have…"

Ken trailed off and his expression twisted into one of pain. Instantly, Aya was at his side. Ken, not quite enjoying the attention, elbowed the red-haired young man in the ribs. "I said," he growled, biting into his lower lip as he did so, "that I was fine."

Eyes narrowing, Aya moved away. Albeit unintentionally, Ken had elbowed him quite roughly. Unconsciously, Ken reached towards his abdomen, wincing internally at the pain that zigzagged across his ribs. Glancing up, he found Aya in a similar position, though not looking nearly as pained, and glaring at him for all he was worth. "Ken—"

"Piss off."

Aya closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Ken. I'm only gonna say this once, so you damn well better listen—"

Ken's eyes only widened indignantly at the apparent lack of understanding Aya was exhibiting. "No, _I'm_ only gonna say _this_ once—get the hell out of my room and leave me the _hell_ alone."

"And another thing," Aya's tone was deadly in its retort, "Don't ever tell me what to do, understand, Hidaka?!"

Ken glared. It was one thing to be standing before a furious Aya Fujimiya when one was in a cheerful mood. He inspired terror. It was another thing entirely to be Ken Hidaka—the perpetually hot-headed teen—and be standing in front of a livid Aya. That inspired irritation….And Ken was never one to back away from his anger. "Listen, _leader_, take your stupid little condescending words, eat them, and stick your head up your proverbial ass before I go do it for you."

Aya's face darkened to a deep red, more of anger than embarrassment. Had Ken been anyone else, and if he'd possessed an ounce of common sense (and perhaps, love of his life), they would've ran out the moment they'd seen the Aya's jaw twitch. Granted, Ken wasn't anyone else, he possessed very little common sense, and, lately, didn't seem to appreciate his life very much. And so, he opened his mouth. Act which, many a times before, had caused him grief. "Are you deaf now, too? Gee, Aya, from what I heard last night, you can be _more_ than vocal when you want to be."

Aya's cheeks, if possible, darkened a shade. He'd been overwhelmed the night before…everywhere he'd looked he'd seen Ken…his posters, the dirty shirt haphazardly thrown atop a nearby shelf, the smell of his cologne lingering on his pillow…He hadn't been able to help himself. "That has nothing to do with the issue," the redhead ground out, body trembling in an effort to contain his anger, "so mind your own business."

"Mind my own business?" Ken was incredulous. He fixed raging chocolate eyes on Aya. "It rather as well is _my_ fuckin' business when you service yourself on _my_ bed."

Aya's right arm trembled. "Ken," he warned, tone low and steady.

Ken, meanwhile, apparently cured from whatever ailment had plagued him previously, threw his arms in the air and sighed melodramatically. "What?! You don't like me to say things like that? Get over yourself, Fujimiya!"

Aya took a tantalizing step forward. Ken's face positively seethed. "What? Is that supposed to intimidate me, now? Listen, Aya, I sure as hell ain't gonna go scurry away because you tell me to. It's my _freakin'_ room, damn it!"

Aya couldn't stand it. Closing the distance between them in two adept steps, he brought back his right arm and punched Ken across the cheek with all the strength he could muster. Ken, surprised, found himself on the floor, eyes wide and taken aback. Had Aya been anyone else, Ken might've sprung to his feet and socked him a good one…but, truth was, even though he was angry at Aya, he was also rather hurt. And that was emotionally so. He blinked soft, pained eyes up at Aya from his position on the floor. His lip trembled.

Last night, he had fallen asleep sometime after Aya had brought him two aspirins and a glass of water. Ken had felt as if he were in heaven. Not only was the redhead being ridiculously civil, he was actually managing to be humane, as well. Regardless, Ken figured that attitude would last only until he was better. He supposed he'd given his teammates quite a scare. He'd awoken to that thought a few hours later.

He'd been startled at first, waking up in a room that was hardly his, moonlight streaming in from a window somewhere to his left. For starters, Ken's room didn't _have_ a window, he had a skylight…for another, Ken couldn't remember a time when he'd gotten silk sheets for his bed. Then, it had all come back to him. He smiled a bit to himself as he recalled what had transpired earlier that day, and bit his lip at the unlikelihood of it ever happening again. Truth was, although he had tried to deny it for quite a long time, he had a crush on the human ice-berg, Aya Fujimiya.

Then, out of the clear blue, and just as he was lulling himself back to sleep, he heard a soft moan coming from somewhere to his left. Cautious, and assassin instinct kicking in before he had a chance to stop himself, Ken deftly rolled to his side and bore his eyes into the plaster white wall that separated Aya's room from his own. His throat felt dry.

He debated whether Aya was having a nightmare—which, he'd heard the young man have before—but hesitated on the idea of waking him up. Usually Omi was the one who did that type of thing. Out of them all, Omi was the only one who could remain unscathed after an encounter with the four of them.

Just as he was about to rise from his bed and pad over to his own room to wake Aya, another moan—this one louder—permeated through the walls once more. Pausing in a sitting up position, Ken's eyes widened and his cheeks darkened as he realized exactly what kind of sound that was. "Shit…"

Blushing, Ken slowly let himself fall backwards onto his bed and closed his eyes. Damn it. As if he would be able to sleep with Aya groaning like he was in an adjoining bedroom. His palms itched. Then, his heart stopped cold. Was…Was Aya with a girl?

He certainly knew what sex sounded like. Apart from having indulged in his share of stints, Youji often brought home more than enough girls for him to know what _that_ sounded like. Ken sometimes pitied Omi; the youth's bedroom was right beside Youji's and—although Youji was particular about not bringing girls home—he _did_ so on occasion. But Aya? Aya never brought home girls, nevermind that he never seemed particularly interested in any of them. Well…besides Sakura…not that she was a girl. Well…she _was_, but she certainly lacked the voluptuousness Ken associated with women.

No…Aya wasn't with a girl. He'd have heard her if he was. From experience, he knew that women liked to be increasingly vocal when they were with good-looking men. And, sure as hell was hot, Aya was good-looking. Besides, were men grunted during sex, women were more prone to soft moans and whimpers. What he heard from Aya's room were hardly high-pitched, womanly squeals. No…they were deep, husky groans.

Ken swallowed thickly. Being as he was, in Aya's room, he doubted the redhead would much appreciate his soiling his silk sheets. But if Aya didn't curb his sounds, then he sure as hell was gonna have a hard time containing himself. The whole situation would've been amusing if it weren't for the awkwardness it inspired. He could almost imagine how things would be tomorrow—_Oh, yeah—by the way, Aya, I heard you last night…couldn't help myself, you know—you're moans are ever-so-inspiring. So, I, uh…left you a little mess to clean up."_

Argh. Ken groaned morosely. The situation was positively mortifying. And then, a sudden thought struck him. Aya was getting it on with someone in _his_ bed. Gross.

Frowning, Ken drifted further beneath the covers of the bed, his naked toes enjoying the feel of the cool silk around them. So…Aya was with someone else. He didn't know why that hurt. Well, he _did_ know why it hurt, but he wasn't about to go admit it. Ken had a knack for being ridiculously stubborn when he wanted to be.

His reverie was broken when he realizes all had fallen silent. Biting his lower lip, and telling himself Persia probably hadn't heard that curiosity had killed the cat when he'd picked their codenames, Ken shakingly stood from bed and pressed his eyes to the cool, uninviting surface of the plaster wall. All he heard where deep, erratic intakes of breath. And those breaths were only coming from one person…and, unless Aya had killed his bed-partner of a few minutes ago and was rejoicing in quiet solace over it's corpse, he doubted anyone else had been there in the first place. Good God. Ken swallowed thickly. Damn it, but was the thought of a nude, sweaty Aya arousing.

Pressing a hot forehead against the plaster wall, Ken drew in an unsteady breath of his own. Licking his lips, he tried to imagine how Aya might look just then—crimson hair wet with sweat, violet eyes hazy with desire…his soft, milky skin seeming even more ethereal with the glow of the moonlight coming in from above him. Ken's breathing hitched. Damn it. This wasn't helping him. Pushing himself away from the wall, he trudged over towards Aya's bathroom and, turning the tap, slapped cold, icy water on his face.

But now, as he was, sprawled vulnerably against the pristine white carpet of Aya's room, he felt hard, angry tears spring to his eyes. Aya hadn't ever hit him…not once since that day at the Koneko when they'd first met. And now…now he had.

Ken wiped roughly at his eyes with his forearm slowly got to his feet. He nodded very hesitantly, not daring to bring his eyes up to meet Aya's, and turned to leave. "Listen,"

Ken didn't wait for any recognition, just continued on, "Don't mess with me. Don't concern yourself with me or my problems. You stay outta my business, and I'll stay out of yours. Otherwise, I'd suggest you watch where you tread. You damn may as well be Abyssinian to the rest of the world, and Aya to the rest of Weiss…but don't assume that just because I'm not a damn recluse, that I can't be Siberian around you."

Aya opened his mouth to say something, but Ken's eyes sharply snapped to his own. "No," Ken shook his head, hard eyes never once leaving Aya's face, "you didn't understand. I said, I'm Siberian…and unless you want a pair of bugnuks in your gut, don't mess with me."

That didn't seem to deter Aya anymore that Ken's previous statement had. "Is that what this is about? The blood?"

Ken's eyes flashed dangerously, and, in a second, Aya found himself very uncharacteristically pinned against the wall, Ken's right hand tight around his throat. "There _was_ no blood."

Aya's eyes narrowed. Ken might've been intimidating at that moment, the redhead gave him that, but he sure as hell had a lot to learn when it came to his recklessness. In a second, Aya had changed their positions and Ken winced as his head was ungracefully smacked against the plaster wall. Aya was much taller than he—by at least a foot—and, although Ken had an athletic build that could put many to shame, much of his strength lay in his thighs, product of long hours of soccer practice, no doubt. Aya, on the other hand, had arms worthy of making steel envious. His daily practice with the heavy, twenty pound katana Ken had once tried to lift (and failed miserably at) made his arms rather strong. Ken struggled vainly against the redhead's grip. "Let me go."

Aya simply raised a thin, pale eyebrow and tightened his hold on the young man until he stopped moving. "What am I?"

"What?!" Ken looked at Aya as if he were crazy. Then, "I don't know! You're being a freakin' asshole, right now if you hadn't noticed!"

Aya rolled his eyes. "I heard you last night, Ken."

"What?" Ken's forehead creased in confusion. "What the hell are you talking about, Aya?"

The redhead loosened his grip on the young man before him. "Last night. I heard you."

Ken was exasperated. "_I_ heard _you_, dammit, don't get confused, Aya."

"No…what I mean is that I heard you. Standing up—going to the wall…waiting. I heard your breathing…I heard your head bang against the wall. Heard you wash your face afterwards."

Ken paled. "Are you a stalker now, too?!"

Aya waved away Ken's attempt to change the subject. "Why did it bother you so much? The idea of me being with someone?"

Ken growled. When in doubt, deny, deny, deny…then, if all else fails, plead the fifth. That was one of Youji's favorite mottos. So, what did good 'ole Ken do? Deny, deny, and deny…

"I didn't think you were with anyone! Damn it, Aya—let go."

The young brunette writhed under Aya's tight grip, annoyed with his own lack of strength, and paused to blow a tuft of chocolate hair away from his eyes. He used that as an excuse to gather his thoughts. "Besides…I wasn't at the wall, last night. I was too sick to even stand."

The look on Aya's face was enough to tell him that he hadn't bought that excuse. "Ken, even if you weren't such an awful liar, I doubt you could've pulled that off. Now answer me."

"Why won't _you_ answer _me_ as to why you were panting and groaning in _my_ bed last night?"

God, did that question bring up an array of illicit images in Ken's mind.

Aya simply shrugged. "Anything I say will prove useless to you."

Ken growled. "Fine then. Anything _I_ say will prove useless to you, just the same."

"Stop acting like a kid, Ken, you're nineteen, already."

Had Ken been able to, he would've thrown his arms over his head. As it was, he'd been doing that a lot, lately. Instead, he lowered his eyes.

Aya, notorious for his observant nature, noticed the change in Ken's demeanor instantly. He let go of the brunette somewhat reluctantly. "This isn't going to stay like this," he warned.

Ken nodded. "I know it isn't."

He raised soft eyes and focused them absently on Aya's face. Then, so low Aya barely heard him say it, Ken whispered, "It happened again this morning. The blood, I mean."

Ken locked his eyes with Aya's violet ones. Fear lurked in those luxurious chocolate depths. "It's…It's never happened this long…or so many times in one day…"

The brunette let his eyes drop to the floor. "Aya…?" his voice was small and child-like, " I'm…I'm scared."

And suddenly, the two arms he was growing accustomed to came immediately about him. Ken bit his lower lip and whimpered, hands gripping violently at Aya's shoulders, and drew in a ragged breath. "I…I'm so—so scared…"

And, although the tears kept on coming…the arms didn't let go.

* * *

Yes...I know...the ending was a bit wayward, but, did ya like? 


	4. In a Trance

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos  
**__Chapter 4 -- In a Trance  
_

* * *

"I don't see _why_ I had to get stuck doing this…"

Omi smiled affectionately at Ken's good-natured complaints. The brunette had been, for the larger part of two hours, sitting on the tiled floor of the Koneko, trying to figure out how to put together their newly-purchased Christmas tree. As it was, it would've been much easier if the tree had come with instructions; and, though it _had_, Ken was hardly one to know Armenian. "Who the _hell_ writes up instructions in _Armenian?_ In _Armenian_! Hell, French, I understand—English's a given…heck, I'll even swallow some Spanish, but _Armenian?_ Do I look like freakin' translation site?!"

Omi smiled once more, this time a bit more wearily, and caught Youji's glance. The older man grinned amusedly at Ken's ranting spree, teetering slightly on a ladder as he did so. "Be careful, Youji. I would've put Ken up there if he hadn't been sick yesterday. I don't trust you putting up mistletoe."

The russet blond cast Omi an inquiring glance. "What? So I put mistletoe over your bed last year…I was hoping to get a thank you instead of a dart tossed towards my head."

Omi's cheeks colored slightly. "Youji-kun—" the boy's tone was warning, "I hardly consider an entire bouquet of mistletoe hanging from my ceiling decent. The way that was going, that mistletoe would've gotten me much more than a kiss."

Youji's eyebrows wiggled up and down suggestively, "That's the effect I was going for, Omittichi."

"Don't call me that, Youji-kun!"

Ken scoffed from his corner. "I doubt mistletoe would be something to regret. At least you don't have to build a _freakin_' robot with instructions in _Armenian!"_

Youji brightened, "Then I'll get to setting the mistletoe in your room, Kenken!"

The brunette barely batted an eyelash. "Do it and die. I'd much rather you help me get this thing up before Aya the Irritated comes back and whines about it."

The older man raised a curious eyebrow and cast Omi an inquisitive look. Since when was Ken in bad spirits in regards to Aya?

"Aya the Irritated? Whoa…slow down, there, Kenken. Last I heard, I was the only one who spouted random appositives for our dear ol' leader."

Ken shrugged, then glared when the action caused the only assembled portion of the tree to come crashing down about him. "Well fuck 'the last you heard.'"

At that, Youji frowned. Ken wasn't the type to curse. Well, granted, being a man and a teenager, Ken had his usual lapses of modest language, but he wasn't sparse with profanity, either...which was why Youji was slightly concerned with the fact. Sighing at Omi's pronounced pout, Youji made a point of sauntering over to Ken. Once close enough, he leaned over the brunette with the pretense of reaching for an idle branch, stopping only when his lips alighted on Ken's ears. The boy's cheeks flamed.

Sputtering, and about to crash into the remnants of his tree to avoid touching Youji anymore than he absolutely had to, Ken nearly missed Youji's whispered message. "So…no luck with Abyssinian?"

Stilling, Ken allowed himself to sigh, shaking his head no in the process. Offering Youji a strained smile as he pushed away the older man, Ken kicked at an idle branch. "I made things worse, if anything."

Youji mouthed an 'o', but let the subject drop. Having harbored an unrequited crush on their team leader in the very early Weiss years, he knew how positively despairing things could be for anyone who had any sort of feelings for the cold, crimson-haired assassin of their team. It wasn't that Aya went out of his way to be impassive; it was just in his nature to be like that. And, though it had taken Youji months to nurture his bruised ego, he had understood that Aya would be Aya regardless of whom he was talking to and regardless of whom he cared for.

Besides…for the last few weeks, Youji had been feeling uncharacteristically attracted to their resident school-boy.

Ken sighed dramatically. "Can I burn this?" He pointed at the stack of twigs, leaves, and lights that were supposed to be their Christmas tree. Omi offered him a sympathetic smile.

"I don't think so…Aya-kun bought it. Don't think he'll appreciate the waste of money."

Ken growled. "Well then, tell that Scrooge to go build his own, damn tree."

With those final words, Ken gave the tree branches another dejected kick, a kick that could very well rival that of Pelee, and pushed past Youji towards the front door. Anger still unassuaged, he continued ranting as he looked for his jean jacket. "And—if I may inquire—why the hell isn't he here right now?! What are we, his freakin' slaves? He tells us to do something and we do it?! If he wants to make the house gorgeous for Sakura, than he might as well go and do it himself!"

Satisfied with that train of thought, and finally finding his jacket, Ken jerkily shrugged it on, and slammed open the front door…to find himself face-to-face with a bewildered looking Sakura. Something in Ken snapped.

It certainly didn't help when Sakura flashed him a sugary-sweet smile.

"Evening, Ken-kun? Is Aya in? He told me to come by tonight."

_He told you to come by? **He** told **you?** More like you freakin' accosted him until he had no option…_

"Night."

As he growled out the words, Ken held back the urge to slam the door in Sakura's face. As it was, his right hand was twitching to do so. Thankfully, Youji appeared at his side just in time to lodge his foot against the door. Shooting him a strategically placed glare, Youji motioned for him to exit. "Ken was just on his way out…he's going…out. To look for Aya."

He added the last bit of information with a bit of smugness. Sakura turned excitedly towards Ken. "Really? Well, then, let me go with you!"

"No, it's allright."

"No, really, I'd love to go."

And I'd love for you to go die…

"And, I must again say," Ken was ready to reach for his bugnuks by then, "that no, I'd _really_ rather go alone."

Sakura frowned. "But," she began, confused expression in her eyes, "we both know Aya'd much rather that I go find him, Ken-kun."

Even if that statement hadn't been coated with sugary sweetness, Ken would've been able to detect the malice beneath the words. The mockery…the arrogance.

Ken was at a loss for words. Then, finally, "I'm going on my motorcycle."

A dainty feminine shrug. So much unlike Yuriko… "I don't mind. I've ridden on Omi's bike before, too."

"That was a moped," Ken growled. Comment at which Omi, who had appeared behind Youji a few minutes ago once he realized a brawl could very well break out, protested.

Another shrug and a girly giggle. "I don't think it'll be much different, Ken-kun."

Youji tried to interrupt. "Sakura—it's really not safe to ride on a motorcycle."

"I don't mind, Youji-kun! I think it's exciting. Besides, Aya really wanted to see me today…" Sakura turned blue eyes on Ken, "and I know Ken-kun doesn't mind. Right, Ken-kun?"

"Actually—" Omi elbowed Ken roughly in the ribs, "Fine."

* * *

Sakura was grinding on his very nerves. 

And, apart from his nerves, she was grinding on his stomach, too.

Apparently, unlike her previous assertion, Sakura hadn't ridden on a motorcycle before. Otherwise, she would've known that riding one would require high speeds. Or, at least, speeds that seemed abnormally high because of the fact that the body was exposed to open air.

And she was taking out that frustration on his stomach.

It could've been worse, Ken argued, and he normally wouldn't have minded a girl pressing so closely into him. But this girl was Sakura—and he hadn't been feeling too well lately, to begin with. Especially his stomach. He'd been throwing up with more frequency—and, although the blood was gone, the vomiting left him feeling weak and irritable…not to mention that it had made his stomach area all the more sensitive. A few days earlier they'd been on a mission, and Schulidich had sent a fiery kick in his direction that had left him coughing up blood for hours afterwards.

Needless to say, the last thing he needed was a frightened girl gripping his stomach so tightly that he feared he'd find her nail imprints on his stomach later on.

As they rounded a curve, Ken felt Sakura's fists dig further into his stomach.

His grip on his bike faltered momentarily. Sakura let out a blood-curling scream.

Damn. Ken gritted his teeth and tried to block out Sakura's shriek as he concentrated on righting the bike. Generally speaking, Ken wasn't the type to be careless on a motorcycle—apart from the Yuriko incident, he'd never quite had an accident. And thanks to good 'ol Sakura, he damn near had.

They continued on that way for a few more blocks, Ken's trained eyes expertly scouting the area for any trace of red, when he caught sight of something. Slowing down, and ignoring Sakura's curious remark on his breaking the speed limit, the young man arched his neck slightly to the left. It looked like…

Sakura, apparently catching sight of what Ken's eyes were focused on, eased herself roughly from the bike and opened her mouth to call out to Aya. Or, to who she guessed was Aya. Ken figured it was someone else. Nearly jumping off his motorcycle in his effort to get to her quickly, Ken found himself crashing front-first into the concrete curb. Great. Just what he needed. More bruises.

Sakura turned momentarily at hearing his soft groan, then frowned at the mess that lay before her. "Ken-kun? What're you doing down there?"

Ken, who had been about to say something smart, bit down hard on his tongue and let his head fall against the concrete sidewalk. He winced. And then, "That's not Aya. Or, it doesn't look like him, at least."

Sakura frowned once more. "Not Aya-kun?" the young girl turned back towards the clearing in the park where she thought she'd spotted a lock of reddish hair. Her eyebrows knitted together. "I can't see him anymore…"

The petulant young girl glared at Ken, "See! Now we won't find Aya-kun!"

For the second time that night, Ken stifled his urge to strangle Sakura. As it was, he was indulging in graphic pictures of her possible demise when he felt the presence of another behind him. Just as he tensed, however, Sakura let out a please shriek. "Aya-kun!"

Relaxing, and turning just in time to see Aya being uncharacteristically glomped by Sakura, Ken sighed. He couldn't exactly explain how he'd been feeling until he'd found Aya. It wasn't only that Sakura be irritating him to no end…it was—

Something wasn't quite right.

Ken's eyes slowly made their way back to the area in the clearing. Just then, something in his gut twisted. Ken licked his lips. He'd never quite been one to ignore his intuition—doing so had only almost gotten him killed thousands of times—but as of late, he hadn't been paying it much attention. Now, however, the skin on his arms prickled whenever he looked back towards that patch of land. He thought for sure that he'd seen someone there…

Not thinking all that clearly, the brunette took a hesitant step forward, eyes sharp and focused. He bent down slightly, seeking to see past the imposing branches of a weeping tree, when he felt a firm hand grip his shoulder. His body tensed.

"Ken?"

Ken sighed, forgoing the nagging feeling at the edge of his subconscious in order to try and concentrate on the young man before him. "Yeah?"

Aya gazed slightly passed him, fixing amethyst eyes where Ken's own had been just moments ago. His eyes, narrowed as they studied the spot, lost some of their composure at Ken's next words. "Sakura needs to get home."

Aya stiffened slightly. Then, amethyst depths locked reproachfully onto chocolate orbs. Ken, however, seemed unfazed. "You can take my bike. You know how to ride it, and," Ken turned back towards Sakura, "she's not that bad a passenger. I'm sure you won't mind."

Ken had made it a point to leave Aya with no other choice. Besides, something about that park was intriguing him; it was beckoning him forward, and he damn well couldn't go about his own instincts with Sakura twittling carelessly about. Nor with Aya standing right next to him. The redhead would simply dismiss his thoughts as childish and paranoid. He wasn't in the mood for that. Not at all.

"You're not coming, Ken-kun?"

Had she tried, Ken doubted Sakura would've been able to hide the glee in her voice.

Dark brown locks shook in denial. "No…I—I want…to walk around…play some soccer, maybe." As he finished speaking, Ken fished around absently in his bike's 'mini-trunk' and pulled out an old, somewhat deflated soccer ball. Contented smile coming to his face, he dribbled the ball expertly for a few seconds, before kicking it up and into his arms once more. "I'll be okay."

Aya didn't seem entirely convinced. Had he been anyone else, Ken might've guessed that the redhead was actually being somewhat reluctant in leaving. Though, for what reason, Ken couldn't particularly fathom. "We can all fit on the motorcycle."

Ken raised an uncertain eyebrow. Half of him was, at Aya's insistence, yearning to get on that bike and go home. His other half, on the other hand, couldn't help but feel as if Aya wasn't taking him seriously. His face hardened slightly. "No. That'd be dangerous. Just take Sakura."

"C'mon, Aya-kun," Sakura tugged anxiously at Aya's sleeve, fearful that Ken would soon do as the redhead requested, "Ken-kun can take care of himself, I'm sure."

"Yeah," Ken gave his soccer ball a forceful bounce, as if it were a basketball, and locked eyes with Aya, "I can take care of myself."

With a final look towards that deserted spot, Aya nodded, lips pursed, and outstretched his right hand. Ken gazed at him curiously. "Keys?"

"Oh." Ken patted his jeans absently, chocolate eyes lingering on Aya's own. Then, "They're still there. It's on."

A nod. And then Sakura's feminine little giggle, "Aya-kun…drive safety. Ken almost killed us earlier on. Right, Ken-kun?"

Ken figured refraining from answering was the best he could do.

A final look at him, and Aya had started the motorcycle's motor. "How are you getting home?"

A shrug. "Walking," Ken grinned, "or running. Depends on how I feel."

Aya's amethyst eyes narrowed at the comment, but he turned them towards the paved street once more. And then, the two were off, disappearing in a matter of seconds down the winding road. Ken felt the smile he'd plastered on his face slowly fall. There was no one left to act in front of, after all.

* * *

"I'm worried about him, Youji-kun…" 

Youji flashed Omi a lazy grin, "I'm worried more about Sakura right now. Imagine it—Ken and his bugnuks, a lonely burial, no more annoying fifteen-year-olds…"

"Youji-kun!" Omi gave the older man a soft reprimanding push. "Really. He hasn't been looking so great lately. He's awfully pale. And remember what happened after Mastermind kicked him? He acted like a hurt kitten."

"How fitting, Omittichi. I'm sure Mastermind would appreciate the comparison"

Another shove. "Don't call me that Youji. Besides…He's been acting so—_down_—too. I'm willing to bet Aya-kun had a lot to do with that."

"No, kidding. Ever thought of going into detective-work, chibi? I hear the pay's great."

Omi rolled large, blue eyes but refrained from hitting Youji. He had an odd idea that the playboy enjoyed his doing so. "I wonder what happened. Between them. That night. You remember?"

Youji scoffed, "Of course I remember. The fool nearly got himself killed from pneumonia. And Manx could've been a little more supportive."

Omi looked up from his job of untangling the Christmas lights, a bit surprised by Youji's cold tone. As far as he had known, the blonde man—protector of all women with the exception of those under the age of eighteen—had never done anything other than compliment Manx. He frowned. He figured he'd been disappointed at the woman's almost indifferent attitude towards Ken's condition.

"C'mon, grandpa, Get on with the work—"

"_Grandpa?!?!_" Youji looked as though he'd been knifed in the gut, "Who're you calling _grandpa_, you little runt?! This man's got plenty of live left in him, still!" then, as if to prove it, Youji gave Omi a rough pull, sending the younger boy tumbling into his lap, and damn near kissed him into oblivion. That oughta teach him…calling him a grandpa when he was in his prime…

* * *

Ken held the soccer ball tighter to his chest. He felt…odd. Then again, considering how he'd been feeling lately, feeling 'odd' was hardly a bad thing. 

His eyes scanned the place almost by habit, hand going instinctively toward his jacket pocket, place where he usually hid his bugnuks, and finding nothing. Damn. He'd forgotten them. Not that he would've taken them, either way. Especially not if he'd known Sakura would've come with him. Oh well. There was very little he could do at that point.

Dropping on all fours, he silently crawled forward, freezing in his spot when he saw a familiar head of flame-red hair attached to an even-still more familiar body. Shit. It was Mastermind.

At his internal expletive, two emerald eyes glanced up curiously from where they'd been, scanning the area strangely before settling on Ken's own bewildered eyes. A feral smile graced the man's lips. "Well, well…let's see what the kitten dragged in. Assuming your role adequately, I see…padding around on all fours."

Ken rolled his eyes, not bothering with Mastermind's psychotic taunts, and rose slowly to his feet. "I figured it was you."

A pale red eyebrow rose bemusedly. "Really now? Didn't really hear you until you decided to curse the gods for your apparent luck. That kind of thought's ridiculously appealing to me, you know. It's like honey to the bear." Schulidich's eyes twinkled mischievously. "But what brings you hear, little Weiss kitten?"

A shrug and a narrowing of dark, chocolate eyes. "Did you entrance me? To come find you?"

Schulidich seemed amused at the developments. "Call you?" Schulidich gave an almost surprised laugh, "If I were in my right mind to even _call_ one of you, it certainly wouldn't be you, Siberian. It'd be Balinese…or better yet, Abyssinian."

Those emerald eyes mocked Ken, almost threatening him to shout out against that assertion. He didn't.

"If anything," Schulidich began, "It was your leader who came to find me. I simply answered the call." Sensing Ken's confusion, Schulidich continued, "Your leader's been calling out for days. Mentally, that is—" Schulidich paused as he pointed to his head, using his finger to draw small little circles around his ear.

"He got it in his head that I was like Brad. Seems to think, for one reason or another, that I can predict what's to come." Schulidich shook his head, "So, just to please him, I decided to meet him out here, tonight. Crawford said he'd be here. Was pissed as hell that he even got the vision of me with Abyssinian, but…when has that ever stopped me?"

Ken stood, as he'd been for the last few minutes, rooted to the spot. Schulidich, seemingly guessing he wasn't all that together, stood from his perch on a white-rimmed, decorated bench and inspected Ken inquisitively. He took two confident steps forward and bent down, just slightly, so that he was at eye-level with him. "He was worried about you, you know."

* * *

"Youji-kun!" 

Omi's cheeks darkened to a shade Youji never would've guessed was humanly possible. The young boy scattered off his lap, a scandalized look on his face, and winced, closing his eyes when he heard multiple crunching sounds beneath his sneakers. He took in an unsteady breath, glaring with all his might at Youji, before slowly glancing downwards. He groaned. He'd crushed every single one of their new Christmas lights to dust.

Youji, more than a bit surprised at the boy's outburst, couldn't help the amused smile that came to his lips as he took in Omi's flaming cheeks, tousled hair, and puffy pink lips. It took all his self-discipline not to grab onto him once more and kiss his senseless…once more.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Youji made a point of scanning the area about them. Hell, what Ken hadn't ended up destroying trying to build the tree, Omi had ruined trying to escape him. "Well. One thing's for sure. Aya won't be pleased."

Sighing, and dropping his guard if not only momentarily, Omi let shy eyes lock with Youji's. "That's for sure."

* * *

So...whadda ya think?

* * *


	5. Burning Emerald

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
**__**The Weaver Atropos  
**__Chapter 5 -- Burning Emerald_

_

* * *

_

"Where's Ken?"

Omi and Youji both looked up, startled, from their positions by the dilapidated tree. Omi shifted a bit from Youji, cheeks burning and looking thoroughly flustered. "Not here yet, Aya-kun. He went out to look for you, actually."

For a moment, sprawled out as he was on the floor, Youji took a minute to examine Aya's condition. The man was flushed, his cheeks pink and his lips red, hair tousled enough to lend him the appearance of not having slept in ages. Youji quirked a curious eyebrow. Omi missed the look entirely.

Standing up, the younger blond stumbled over towards Aya, losing his balance as he became tangled in the Christmas lights, and ended up on the far left side, clinging to the wall for sheer life. His eyes were worried. "Where's Ken-kun, Aya?"

Aya turned away instantly, pulling on the jacket he'd roughly taken off upon entering. "Wait!"

Aya paused at Youji's exclamation, offering the man a quick glance. "You can track his motorcycle."

Red locks shook to and fro, "No. It's right outside. He gave it to me."

"He gave it to you?" Omi's blue eyes flicked towards Youji's. Aya nodded.

"I ran into him. He should've been back, though. That was nearly an hour ago."

Another russet eyebrow rose. "And what were you doing in all that time, Aya?"

Ignoring Youji's blunt inquiry, Aya looked towards Omi for more information. The youth shrugged. "Does he have his bugnuks with him, at least?"

Omi bit his lip, looking quickly about him, before bounding off to a locket trapdoor in the corner, hidden beneath prussian couch. Pulling inadequately at its heaviness, Omi heaved a thankful sigh when he felt both Aya and Youji at his sides, helping to push the couch aside. Once the space was cleared, Omi dropped to his knees, fishing into his pockets simultaneously, and pulled out his keychain. He could see Youji roll his eyes. "Pepper spray, chibi? Aren't you a professional assassin?"

A dark blush rose to his pink cheeks.

"Get on with it," Aya nearly growled, giving Omi a forceful shove with his palm. Nodding, Omi fumbled with the keys, fingertips uncharacteristically shaking, before he found the key and turned the lock. He sat back. Seeking Youji's silent assurance, the young boy eased the door open. Their weapons were there.

He pushed his dart box aside impatiently aside, breath quickening as he found Aya's sword, and pulled that out to set it someplace else. "I don't think—" Omi trailed off as he picked up Ken's clawed gloves, covered haphazardly with a translucent cloth.

Before he had a chance to react, Aya had snatched up his sword and was out the door.

Omi turned towards Youji, lip quivering. "Why…Why was he so _scared_? Could there be something wrong," Omi's eyes widened further, "Youji—what if he's hurt…"

* * *

Schulidich pulled away from Ken, lips widening almost sadistically in a grin. His emerald eyes sparkled with malice. "You like him." 

Ken's eyes widened in fear. "No! No…." Ken shook his head, brown eyes pinned almost painfully to Schulidich's feet. "He's my leader."

Schulidich raised an unconvinced eyebrow, but stepped away just as well. Gesturing dramatically with his arms, Schulidich spun around, reveling in the knowledge that he was being watched. "Well little kitten…Oracle's my leader, too."

Schulidich paused for effect, "And that doesn't stop me."

Ken didn't quite understand where all this was going. Knowing, with his gift, and enjoying that Siberian was clueless to a lot of things, Schulidich continued. "Abyssinian knew I was here."

_He knew…?_

Schulidich rolled his eyes, but nodded. "Yeah. He knew. And he let you walk into my little trap," another feral grin, "isn't that fitting?"

And then, on a tangent, Schulidich approached Ken predatorily, a distasteful glint in his eyes. As he circled him, Ken could feel Schulidich's gaze raking almost appreciatively over his body. He felt himself subconsciously stiffen. Schulidich was amused. "Really kitten," Schulidich pressed his chin against the crook of Ken's neck, breathing in the boy's unique aroma with a smile, "there's no need to be afraid. I won't do anything you don't want me to do."

Ken felt his eyes fall shut. He knew, deep inside, that Schulidich was somehow controlling his body, rendering him powerless against all his attacks. Schulidich raised another eyebrow. He pressed a soft kiss to Ken's neck before straightening up. "Oh…but I'm not, kitten. This is _all_ you…I'm not in here—" he gave Ken's head a furtive tap.

_I wonder what…what Aya would say…_

"He'd be infuriated," Schulidich's arms slowly came about Ken's immobile form, encompassing him from behind, "and he'd try and tear me to pieces."

"I'm…I'm not armed."

Ken felt almost stupid admitting his defenseless state to the enemy, but he figured Schulidich would've known anyway, mind-reader that he was. "Mmm hmm," Schulidich nodded, tips of his flaming red hair tickling the nape of Ken's neck, "I would've known. But…if it makes you feel any better…I'm not armed. Brad told me not to be."

At the mention of Schwartz's leader, Ken felt the German stiffen, his expression one of anger…and hurt?

"Not hurt, kitten…disappointment."

Ken jumped, having forgotten he was with a telepath and was about to say something when he felt Schulidich's arms come about him again, this time pulling him even closer. "But I don't need to be armed to be dangerous."

For some reason, rather than frighten him, the comment somewhat assuaged his fears. Schulidich smiled against his neck. "That's better."

Very much against his better judgment, Ken suddenly found himself relaxing into Mastermind's embrace, eyelids falling shut. It was easy like this…eyes only slightly open, the flame-red tint of Mastermind's hair seeming almost crimson in the night…reminding him all the more of Abyssinian. He was pushed back into consciousness by Schulidich's quiet purr of a voice. "I can see why they would like you."

Ken's eyebrows knitted together. But, instead of asking the question that was on the tip of his tongue, he ventured off in thought. "Why's that?"

Mastermind seemed surprised Ken would choose to ask that particular question. He was expecting a different one. Well, that would teach him to take the brunette's psyche more into consideration. Again, Schulidich circled him. "You're very naïve."

Shrugging, Ken pulled away from Schulidich. "So I can be naïve. I wouldn't call myself innocent."

"Oh no," Schulidich caught onto Ken's jacket as he sought escape, anger rising in his veins, "I never said that. You're not innocent at all. All those thoughts going through your head. You see the two of us, don't you? Together somewhere…sweaty perhaps?"

Ken's cheeks burned crimson. "You're crazy!" The young man jerked himself away from the taller telepath. "You're making me see those things, aren't you?!"

Schulidich cocked a curious head to the right. His eyebrows drew together minutely, "No. Those are the thoughts you're sending me. You and Abyssinian certainly are a pair. You send stuff _to me_ and then reproach me as if _I_ had been the one to send them in the first place. Tcch."

"I can't possible be…"

And then he saw it, well, _thought_ it…He saw Schulidich and him, together, chests rising and falling erratically, limbs frantically grabbing at one another…

"Kitten!" Mastermind's voice was uneasy, and he was nearly whining. "Don't think like that! It's hard to control, you know. I feel it a lot more vibrantly than you do, believe me."

Schulidich tangled his hands in his hair, readjusting his bandanna out of habit, "What you saw…that's what Oracle saw. He's rather disturbed."

A crazy grin. "But I don't mind much."

Ken took a hesitant step back. Schulidich rolled his eyes, "It's not anything I planned."

Not quite convinced, Ken took another step back. "Why would you come here tonight? What did Oracle see?"

Schulidich paused in his advances, façade slipping slightly. "He saw you and me. Just as you thought it," Schulidich grinned contemptibly and continued forward, "but a lot more vividly, I'm willing to bet."

Ken took another step back and found himself falling backwards, arms instinctively flailing about him. A second later he was on the ground, legs splayed carelessly about him, arms at his side. He threw Schulidich a dirty glare. _Damn bastard. Could've caught me._

An amused grin made its way onto the redhead's full, pink lips. "Could've, but your arms would've stopped me from it. Now…"

The tall redhead took two adept strides and was at his side. Promptly, he kneeled beside the brunette. "All I want to know is if you were planning this. You and Abyssinian."

Ken looked positively incredulous, "Me?! _Plan this_?! With _you_? Are you crazy? That would've been Youji—or, or…"

Ken trailed off as he realized Schulidich _was_ right. There wasn't anyone else in the team that could possibly have been deployed as a decoy to keep the telepath occupied. _Youji would've been the obvious option, in any case…_

"Exactly," Mastermind rocked back and forth on his heels, "and you," he pointed a thin, delicate finger in Ken's direction, "you would've been the least expected and most equipped for the job. So tell me, what are you planning?"

The brunette's eyes widened when Schulidich, in one, nearly imperceptible move, pinned him easily against the hard, dirt-packed ground of the park. "Nothing! Can't Oracle tell you that?!"

Schulidich increased the pressure on Ken's wrists, "He hates to admit he can't. His visions come of their own volition. It's _my_ question now. Forget about everyone else."

Ken struggled under Schulidich's weight, wincing slightly when the other man's boot dug into his thigh. "Well then read my _freakin'_ mind!!"

Schulidich lifted and smacked Ken roughly into the ground. "I won't. _You_ will tell _me."_

Once more, Schulidich picked up Ken by the shirt, and slammed him back down.

Three seconds later, Schulidich had punched him.

By then, Ken was writhing to be free of the German's rough grip, arching his back, kicking at the air, and tossing his head forward in an effort to hit the man. Nothing worked. Either Oracle had done a damned good job informing the telepath of what he'd try and do, or Mastermind was, on his own, fairly good at detecting his moves. "It really doesn't help much when you think them out, kitten."

"Let me go—"

"No."

Ken growled. How he wished he would've brought his bugnuks along with him; he would've liked to be able to sink them deep in the depths of Schulidich's gut. "You wound me kitty, really, you do."

"Arghh...!"

Perhaps, it didn't annoy Ken nearly as much that he were pinned, trapped beneath Schulidich, as did the fact that the redhead seemed to be enjoying the entire scenario. "Get off me!"

"You know, Siberian…Brad thinks I'm more dangerous than Berserker…" Schulidich smiled in that crazed manner of his, "He keeps me close so that he can keep an eye on me…"

"I can imagine!"

Finally, Ken managed to wrench himself away. Huddling into himself, the young assassin bit into his lower lip as a wave of nausea swept over him. As Schulidich approached, all Ken felt himself do was pull his knees in closer to his body…to try and ease away the pain. "Just…just leave me alone, Mastermind."

"Aww…is the little kitten hurt?"

Ken jerked away as Schulidich's hand alighted on his shoulder, a false sense of sympathy visible in his crystalline eyes. And then, another jolt of pain left Ken falling forward, eyes scrunched up to keep the tears from coming. The boy fell to the floor, sweaty forehead pressed to the ground.

Schulidich watched all this with a trained eye. The more he thought about things, the less he figured that the other knew the true meaning of Oracle's vision. And…the more he thought about it, there seemed to be something seriously wrong with Siberian. He wasn't fighting him back with his usual spunk; he wasn't being nearly as verocious. Schulidich had supposed that, in meeting without weapons, the two would engage in some sort of hand-to-hand street brawl. That was what he expected from the hot-tempered brunette. Never in his right mind would he have thought that Siberian would be inching away from him, lidded eyes crossing in the effort to stay conscious.

And was he making an effort…Even as he tried to delve into the boy's consciousness, all Schulidich could very well pick out were muddled thoughts; appointments, practices, memos, flower arrangements. There was nothing sensible in Siberian's chaotic mind…there was nothing in relation to what he'd seen. Nothing but that idle thought…

"….hhh…" Ken doubled over in pain even as he tried to keep himself from doing so. He drew in a sharp breath. _Not right here…Not in front of him…_

Schulidich quirked an eyebrow. Once more, he knelt beside the younger boy. "Hey, Siberian," he nudged Ken carefully, "Siberian—"

"What?!" Ken kicked at Schulidich's outstretched hand, flinching all the more as a result. "Just…just go away."

_Like hell I'm going away now…looks like Brad got me into more than he bargained for…_

"Hey…" with a kindness he had demonstrated to very few other people, Schulidich tried to right Ken's form, fingertips very gently easing the young boy upwards.

Ken then, as a result, found himself held rather protectively against a defined chest, an interesting scent flitting to his nostrils. Schulidich smelled…he smelled of gunpowder and cinnamon…of jasmine and jade. He was positively intoxicating.

A small chuckle. "Be careful then, kitten. You don't want to get poisoned on me."

Once more, the brunette assassin was eased from his thoughts, but this time, he hardly had the strength to fight. "You're so fuckin' conceited."

Schulidich raised an eyebrow. "I have reason to be. Everyone…Everyone—kitty—has wanted me at one point or another."

Ken coughed, weakening into Schulidich, yet managing a derisive answer. "I reiterate. You're _so_ fuckin' conceited. How would you know, anyway?"

"I know a lot of things. Things you could only imagine, Siberian."

Ken squeezed his eyes shut and drew in a pained breath. "S..Sure you do. And I bet…you get a kick outta knowin' people wanna fuck you to pieces."

Schulidich frowned and let go of the youth entirely, letting him fall to group in an ungainly heap. "Not exactly."

Dark chocolate eyes blinked curiously upwards to meet with burning emerald ones.

"That's rich coming from someone who only minutes ago was imagining the very same thing."

Ken's cheeks burned. "Who the hell would want you? You're _sick_…You're a psycho! No one in their right mind would want you—"

Soft lips twitched into a sad smile. One devoid of any and every emotion. "…And that makes me all the more desirable. Even by Abyssinian's standards. Don't look so surprised….I told you before. Everyone…Everyone has wanted me. But only one can have me."

"You're crazy…"

Schulidich's shoulders rose and fell in a detached shrug. "So what if I am? That only guarantees that I won't feel the pain."

* * *

_Next Chappie!_

* * *


	6. Denial and Betrayal

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos  
**Chapter 6--Denial and Betrayal  
**  
**_

* * *

"You're crazy…" 

Schulidich's shoulders rose and fell in a detached shrug. "So what if I am? That only guarantees that I won't feel the pain."

Ken remained silent, huddled into himself as he was, and regarded Mastermind with a tentative gaze. "I thought you were going to kill me."

Dark emerald eyes focused absently on dark chocolate ones. A pale eyebrow rose in amusement. "Why are you so sure I won't kill you now?"

Ken shrugged, shaggy bangs momentarily obstructing his vision. He pushed them carelessly aside. "I didn't say you weren't. I was just wondering why you hadn't already."

"Are you feeling better?"

It was an abrupt change of subject, but Schulidich succeeded in his intentions. In one quick, sweeping motion, the young brunette held a protective arm to his abdomen. Raising wary eyes, he nodded, not particularly sure of how useful that bit of information would be to Mastermind. He was rewarded by Schulidich's insolent eye-roll. "Don't worry, kitten. I doubt Crawford'd jump up at the prospect of your feeling better."

Letting his statement hang, Schulidich once more knelt beside Ken, this time bringing him up into his arms. He looked expectantly from left to right.

"What?" Ken asked, shifting uncomfortably at being held in such a possessive manner; he'd never really liked being carried…not by his teammates and most certainly not by his enemy.

Schulidich spared Ken a glance but didn't bother to loosen the embrace. Instead, he cast his watch a quick look. "Abyssinian. He's not here. I thought he would be…by now at least. It's been about two hours."

Ken squirmed some more.

"Hey…could you—put me down?"  
"I thought you were hurt—"

Brown locks shook left and right. "It only hurts from time to time."

Mouthing an 'o', the German made a point of setting the brunette down, still careful of doing so within a few feet of a wire bench, so that Ken could sit down, should he feel bad once more. Then, his eyes alighted on the deflated soccer ball Ken had brought along with him, and which he had clenched rather possessively once he'd caught sight of him.

"You play soccer?"

A nod was all the answer he received. Ken was still wobbly on his feet, but after a few seconds, he gestured for Schulidich to toss him the soccer ball. He did. Jealous emerald eyes followed the brunette's quick dexterous motions—he was surprised at the ease with which Ken manipulated the ball. How he managed to keep the damned thing hurtling through the air, Schulidich could only guess.

And then, quite tired of standing to the side, Schulidich shifted towards a nearby tree, leaning against it as he studied the younger man. "Was that your motorcycle?"

"Huh?" Ken looked up blankly, managing at the same time to effortlessly nestle the soccerball against the crook formed by his cocked foot and shin, and focused absent eyes on Schulidich. Then, inquiry registering, he nodded, hand running habitually though his hair as he did so. "Yeah. Kawasaki model."

Mastermind nodded, feeling comfortable in the attention he received, and cocked his head to the side. "You should play professionally, you know."

Soft pink lips hardened into a thin line. Ken's shoulders rolled forward a bit dejectedly and his entire manner stiffened. "Yeah. A lot of people seem to think so."

Schulidich kicked at the dirt before him, frowning a bit at Siberian's uncharacteristic coldness, "So why don't you?"

Another shrug. "You should be a professional model."

A wide, wild grin appeared on the German's face. He was an attention whore and he knew it; whether it be by part of teammates, enemies, or damned strangers, Schulidich loved it when all eyes were on him…he loved being complimented. "You think I'm beautiful."

Ken rolled his eyes. "Conceited bastard."

Schulidich's smile only grew. And then, his eyebrow quirked up distractedly. He turned smoldering emerald eyes on the brunette, focusing almost hazily on his high cheekbones. Then, with strides that were hardly human, he made his way toward Ken, grabbing him roughly by the collar, and pulling him so that they were only inches apart. Ken felt his throat tighten. "Hey—"

But any complaints he might've had were cut short when a pair of tangerine lips pressed themselves rather lusciously against his own. Almost against his will, Ken felt himself succumb to the taller man, wanting to intake the essence that made Mastermind what he was; wanting to know what made him spicy as opposed to sweet…and wondering, at the same time, which one Aya was.

Ken didn't really know what had spurred the other man to kiss him, and, he figured, that even if he did, he wouldn't be able to understand much of the reasoning. Mastermind was, as all other Schwartz members, crazy. And that was all there was to it…

But he was making him delirious all the same.

Mastermind's touch was experienced. His fingertips, smooth and cool, knew where to linger and how to caress. His lips, softer than Ken could ever have guessed them to be, fought against his own—taunting him, _daring_ him to kiss him back.

Schulidich's hands, fastened at both sides of Ken's face to keep him from escaping, strengthened their grip, making Ken wince at the roughness with which he was being held. The brunette then struggled against his grasp, not particular of being held so gruffly, but found himself securely in place. _Make this fun for me, kitten…_

At that point, Ken tried to wrench himself free, turning his face askew so that Schulidich's kisses fell against his jawline. How he wished he could move away…and at the same time…how he wished he could kiss him all the more. _That's it, kitten…Kiss me back._

Little by little, Ken found himself falling into Mastermind's embrace, arms absently tightening about the man's neck, fingertips tangling in that luscious, fiery mane. And all Ken could think about was how absolutely perfect Schulidich tasted against his lips…how, despite his always imagining it'd be him and Aya in this exact position, Schulidich seemed to be enacting his hidden desires without flaw. _Because I know exactly what you need, kitten…_

An unsteady breath escaping his lips when Schulidich momentarily pulled away, Ken missed the soft sound of crunching leaves, and the tell-tale prickling sensation of being watched. He failed to note the diffused shadow enlighted by a stout-standing lamppost…and failed to see the pain stifled beneath amethyst eyes.

All he could hear was the stark pounding of his heart against his chest, and Schulidich's almost whispered taunt. Lips ghosting over his ears, Ken felt his eyes fall shut as the redhead began to speak, only to snap them open once he'd heard the message. "And another kitten arrives."

Horrorized, Ken's chocolate eyes scanned the area, shoving Mastermind off his body almost instantly. His fear, however, did little to conceal his body's earlier reaction to Schulidich's ministrations. Cheeks burning, he sidestepped the redhead's smirking body and spun around hastily, searching for that familiar presence—that reassuring mop of crimson hair.

What he found, instead, were a pair of incriminating eyes—a pair of harsh, icy, lilac depths. Ken's heart crumbled.

Standing a few feet to his right, and, no doubt, with a front-row view of the little show he and Schulidich had put on, stood Aya, steel katana drawn and looking strangely powerless amidst the entire scene. He was staring at Ken confusedly, as if wondering why exactly the brunette would _choose_ to kiss their enemy…and, no doubt, willingly betray Weiss' trust.

Aya's head was cocked to the side, almost as if he didn't quite believe what he was seeing, and his eyebrows were drawn confusedly together. He looked rather…vulnerable. Ken opened his mouth, eager to explain, when Aya's eyes snapped to him. Aya _wanted_, rather say, _demanded_ and explanation…and abruptly, Ken realized he had none. His mouth fell closed once more.

Schulidich took that as his cue to exit. Casting one final glance at Abyssinian, and then disregarding him totally, he pulled Ken by the collar for the second time that night, and kissed him fully on the lips. He was pleased to note Ken didn't entirely refuse the kiss. "Night, night, kittens. Oracle's up and waiting."

And with a wink, and a kiss blown mockingly at Aya, the German was gone, leaving only a scattering wave of leaves behind.

* * *

"Aya—" 

Ken struggled to keep pace with the taller man without breaking into an all out run. "Aya—"

Ken had reached out, hoping to stop Aya from walking so quickly, when the latter spun around, violet eyes flashing furiously. Ken found himself with no other option than to drop his hand, eyes following suit. "Look, Aya…"

Biting his lip, the brunette flicked his eyes towards those of his leader, flinching at the hatred that clearly lay there. Aya was positively livid. The redhead was twitching, his shoulders shaking in anger, hands clenching his katana with the final threads of restraint of a madman. "Quiet. This is a matter for Persia."

Dark brown eyes widened in shock, "Aya—no…I—"

"What?" Aya tossed his sword as they arrived at Ken's motorcycle. "There's nothing to discuss, Siberian. Our only link was Weiss, and now, you've broken that link."

Ken's head bobbed down miserably. "But…Aya—"

"It's Abyssinian," Aya's tone was deathly cold.

"C'mon, Aya—it's not as if…" Ken trailed off, remembering what Mastermind had said. Head snapping up, he practically growled out his next retort. "In any case, _Abyssinian_—I wasn't the only one meeting with Schwartz tonight, was I?"

Violet eyes widened imperceptibly, before narrowing in anger. "Rest assured, my meeting with Mastermind had very little to do with my indulging in petty fantasies."

"Petty fantasies? Are you serious, Aya?! I came here because you _let_ me! You didn't as so much _bother_ to tell me Mastermind was there—I could've been killed….and why, because 'Abyssinian' shouldn't've been talking to Schwartz in the first place?"

Aya took an intimidating step forward. Ken, however, unlike when he'd been with Schulidich, didn't back away. "And I'm sure you would've enjoyed the Shakespearean version of death with our enemy very much."

Ken didn't bother hiding the fact that he had no idea what the hell Aya had just said. "At least I wasn't out fuckin' some minor while a teammate was getting skewered by the enemy!"

A pale eyebrow rose and Aya's threatening persona loomed only inches in front of Ken. "You weren't getting skewered. And what I do with Sakura has nothing to do with this."

"Of course it does!" Ken made a point of walking away then, throwing his hands up in absolute frustration. "Of course it does! You left _with_ her and left me _with_ him. You could've told me, Aya—how hard would that've been?! And why in the _hell_ do **I** get reported to Persia for talking to Mastermind…you sure as hell did, too."

"Do _not_ compare us, Ken. We're nothing alike. And you _made_ me leave with her."

"Made you?" Ken seemed flabbergasted, "Excuse me? When in the _hell_ do **you** listen to what **I** have to say?!"

Aya was losing his patience…and that was an attribute that he, by nature, didn't possess. Aya-chan often used to joke around about his not having been around when God was allotting humane qualities…she had no idea how right she was. "What did you tell him about Weiss?"

"_What?!_"  
"What did you tell him?"

Ken's dignity was more than insulted at that. He'd never, _ever_, given Aya, or the rest of Weiss, for that matter, reason to doubt his loyalty. He would have figure Aya'd be more trusting of him…they had been, after all, partners for the longest of times. And that was something Ken didn't take lightly. To him, Trust was paramount. He trusted, and thus, expected to have that sentiment reciprocated. The knowledge that Aya didn't, in fact, trust him—however justified that feeling was—made Ken's very insides burn in anger.

"You know what, _Aya_? Go to hell. _Go to hell_. And you know what? Take Persia, and Omi, and Youji and _everyone_ and just _go to hell_. You know, while you're at it—take Sakura, too. And why not Aya-chan? I'm sure she'd jus—"

Ken had no time to finish his sentence, as a steel-strong first socked him heartily in the stomach. For a few seconds, all he could see was white hot pain…and that pain made him all the more angrier.

Wiping at the blood that had risen to his mouth, Ken felt a bitter smile come to his cheeks. "I figured as much," Ken paused as he turned around, regarding his motorcycle absently, "and tell Persia I'm gone…" chocolate eyes focused on amethyst ones, "Weiss is dead as far as I'm concerned."

Aya was unfazed by the news. "You know what that means, don't you?"

Ken shrugged, hunching over slightly and not caring much, "That you'll kill me? Go ahead. I'm gonna die soon, anyway. Better now than later, don't you think?"

A bit of emotion flashed through Aya's eyes, but it was gone before it had a chance to register. The brunette, in response, moved closer to his motorcycle, considering the sword that lay only a little bit aways from it. Ken made as if to walk around his bike, searching for something, apparently, when an overwhelming cough made him grab on tightly towards the GPZ's handlebars. He could taste the blood in his mouth, and he cringed despite himself. Ken'd never been particular of the tangy, metallic taste that always came with blood…nor of its musty smell, but he'd never been picky about it either. The problem now, was that it was overwhelming his taste buds.

Frowning slightly, he drew the sleeve of his arm over his mouth, wiping carelessly at it, and failing to notice the amount of blood that transferred itself onto his bright white tee. Aya didn't.

The younger boy then coughed again, this time seeming almost annoyed with himself, and used the bottom portion of his shirt to clean himself up. At that point, Aya noted, he looked as though he'd gotten run over by a truck. He had blood all over himself. Not only was it splattered all over his clothes, but it was caked and smeared at his chapped lips, and new blood was trailing though the gap in the brunette's mouth down his chin and over his neck. Again, and this time impatiently, Ken rubbed at his mouth.

It was perhaps then, that Aya noticed there was more blood on Ken's body. There was a cut on his forehead through which the crimson liquid was steadily seeping out. On his hands, Aya could just barely see hints of cuts and bruises…and he had a black eye. Not to mention that, whatever portion of his shirt wasn't soaked in blood, was gratuitously mussed with dirt.

So, there _had_ been a scuffle. At least, before Aya had walked in on both him and Mastermind.

Aya's reverie was interrupted by Ken's gruff voice.

"Gimme my keys."

Though Ken's speech was slightly muffled by the amount of blood he had gargling around in his throat, Aya understood the message. Giving Ken another once-over, he found himself hesitating over whether or not he should, in fact, turn over the keys.

Seeing that Aya was making no motion of doing as he had asked, Ken took two staggering steps forward, more blood bubbling from his mouth as he stubbornly repeated his request. It didn't take a genius to note that the amount of blood Ken was losing, by then, wasn't safe. And it didn't take Aya, who'd so long been exposed to hospital talk, more than a second to notice.

He wasn't even throwing up, anymore. The blood seemed to be freely escaping of its own accord.

"C'mon, Aya—" Ken made another garbled attempt at wrenching the keys from Aya's slender fingertips, missing by a mile, and swaying rather unsteadily on his feet. His eyes were crossing, and with another swipe at his mouth, Ken disgustedly realized that the blood had long ago gone through the fabric of his shirt, now feeling wet and cold against his clammy skin. Rather childishly, and seemingly forgetting Aya entirely, the brunette pulled up the sleeves of his shirt and inspected his arms with a scowl.

Three seconds later, he was on the floor. Aya had been startled at first—surprised at seeing his usually alert partner plummet heavily to the ground. And, while the more idealistic part in him had told him to reach out, his anger had successful kept his body from moving toward Ken's aide.

"Fuck…" Ken's curse was a soft one, this time muffled as he hiccupped, sending yet another wave of scarlet liquid cascading out of his open mouth. He was on all fours, then, and his blood was pooling about him, staining the knees of his jeans and clinging to the tips of his hair. "I hate this."

Aya's anger quickly faded to alarm. That much blood loss was hardly normal; and the brunette's remaining lucid was even less so. Approaching despite his absolute desire to walk away and let Ken face the consequences of his actions, Aya kneeled beside the youth, and pressed a smooth, pale hand to his forehead. Ken was cold. Deathly, so.

_Just like that day…Okaa-san was this cold, too…_

"Ken?"

The chestnut-haired young man raised his head weakly, barely managing to focus dilated pupils on Aya's kneeling form. An absent smile caressed broken lips. "Present."

Aya assessed he situation in a matter of seconds. He knew the best thing to do then would be to take Ken to a hospital…but he couldn't quite do that. For reasons known only to Persia, and assumed by the rest of Weiss, they weren't permitted to use the public hospitals near their residence. They were only to be hospitalized as a last resort, and even then, they were taken to a private hospital run by Kritiker themselves. "Can you walk, Ken?"

A lazy nod was all the answer he needed. Wrapping his arms about his shorter partner, Aya stood in one lithe motion, taking the brunette up with him. Unsteadied by the move, Ken promptly hiccupped, apparently choking on the mix of blood and bile that kept rising up his chest, succeeding in soiling the entire front of Aya's dark black turtleneck. Wiping at his mouth for the nth time that night, the soccer player offered him a hoarse apology.

Aya ignored the fact entirely, concentrating instead on effectively straddling Ken atop his motorcycle, only to notice that Ken was hardly in any shape to ride behind him; he didn't have the strength to adequately grip at his middle. Growling more to himself than at anyone else, Aya tried to figure out the best course of action. Meanwhile, Ken was cursing him out in the softest of tones. "Bastard."

Disregarding the brunette's insult entirely, Aya easily shifted Ken so that the boy was now facing him. Looking to lock eyes with him, and finding it nearly impossible, Aya gripped at Ken's cheeks. "Listen to me. We're riding back to the Koneko. I need you to grab onto me, as tight as you can."

"Bastard."

Aya straightened the body before him, moving him so that he could adequately reach and maneuver the bike's handlebars. "And I need you to call Youji and Omi to tell them what's going on. Here's my phone. Clear?"

Ken nodded, body shaking momentarily before he did as Aya asked, wrapping his legs tightly about the redhead's torso, and burying his face in the plushy surface of the shirt he'd ruined. Trying to ignore the violent whipping of the wind against his already frozen skin, Ken numbly dialed the Koneko's number, biting his lip to keep the bile down.

"Hello?"

Ken swallowed thickly, "H..hey—"

The voice at the end of the line sought his out desperately, "Ken-kun?! Is that you? Are you okay?! Is Aya-kun with you?"

Ken held back the urge to laugh. "Yeah…"

"Ken? Are you sure you're okay…you sound—horrible."

"Fine. Aya…Aya wants to talk to you now—" then, raising the phone to Aya's face, Ken pressed his forehead against the crook of the redhead's shoulder, drawing in the reassuring scent of Aya's cologne.

"Omi? Call Manx. Get everything ready. We're taking Ken to a hospital."

* * *

"What's wrong, Chibi?"

Omi whisked around, frightened enough by Aya's call to brush away the name. Large blue eyes blinking back tears, he buried himself in Youji's arms, sniffling as the news of Ken's state overwhelmed him.

Granted, at the youth's reaction, Youji came to expect the worst. What had happened? "Hey, hey, Omittichi…what's wrong—Is it Ken?"

Omi mumbled something against Youji's chest, squeezing the blonde closer at the need to be comforted. "What?"

The youngest Weiss managed to pull away, wiping inadequately at his tear-stained eyes. "Ken-kun…Aya-kun says he's really bad…that he's bleeding to death, practically. They're coming…wants to take him to a hospital," Omi paused to rub once more at his eyes, "Manx—we've got to call her…"

Detaching himself reluctantly from Youji, Omi shakingly reached for the phone, surprised when two strong arms encompassed him from behind. Reassured by the warmth radiating from the older man, Omi let out a slow, shuddering breath. "It's okay, chibi," Youji murmured, nuzzling Omi's cheek tenderly. "He'll be okay."

"I know…I hope so…Manx-san? It's Ken-kun…"

* * *

"God, what the hell happened to him?"

Aya cast Youji a blatant look at the question, concentrating on setting Ken down on the makeshift bed Omi and Youji had constructed in their living room, before answering. "He got into a fight with Mastermind. And then into one with me." Aya paused and looked impatiently about. "Is Manx here, yet?"

Youji shook his head no. "She's still taking care of everything. She said she'd be here soon."

Omi bit his lip as he took in the positively tattered state Ken was in. Standing hastily, he disappeared, only to return a few minutes later with a towel and a bowl of warm water. He glanced uncertainly at Aya, not sure if it was okay to even move the teen, when the crimson-haired man nodded. He himself pulled Ken into somewhat of a sitting position, easing the bloodied shirt from his body. Ken, who seemed to be bordering between consciousness and sleep, protested at the sudden cold that hit his body. It was then that Omi hesitated. He didn't want to make the brunette even sicker…

"Just do it. I hardly think a cold could make things all that worse now."

Nodding at Aya's suggestion, Omi smoothed the terry-cloth towel over Ken's toned abdomen, frowning when, at its second pass over his body, the towel came back absolutely soiled. Youji rose and fetched another one. "What happened, Aya-kun? He'd been fine all this time…It's been nearly two weeks since he was sick and—"

"He's been throwing up blood ever since."

"Excuse me?" that was Youji, he'd come back in time to hear Aya's whispered remark. Aya nodded, and let his eyes settle on Ken's closed eyes.

"He's been throwing up blood. Sporadically. Over the last few days…weeks—months…who knows."

Youji tossed Aya one of the spare towels he'd brought back and shook his head. "That idiot. He's so careless with himself."

Aya nodded, thankful for the towel, and only just seeming to remember his blood-stained shirt. Making quick work of it, he pulled it hastily over his head, and, tossing it aside, brushed the moistened cloth over his chest.

"Mastermind ran into him, you said?"

Aya grunted a 'yes' at Omi's query, wondering why the hell Manx wasn't there yet. "And they got in a fight?"

Another grunt.

"And then you got in a fight with him?"  
"Yes."  
"Why?"  
"He's leaving Weiss."

Omi repeated the words to himself, considering them in relation to everything else he knew. "Leaving…Weiss?"

All Aya could do was nod. "And, he got this bad?" Omi's eyes ran over Aya's form swiftly, "you don't look bruised at all."

Youji, who had been standing at the threshold of the door, arms crossed, followed Omi's reasoning. Then, "Do you know how badly Mastermind hurt him? What did you do to him, anyway?"

"Punch him."  
"Once?"

Aya nodded his assent. Youji , meanwhile, digested the new information. "Then that means Mastermind must've beat him up pretty bad. Which m—"

The doorbell rang. Omi shot out of his perch by Ken and ran to the door, pulling it wide open and letting Manx know, with the emotion shining in his eyes, how serious things were.

* * *

_Next chappie, next chappie!_

* * *


	7. Adolescence Redefined

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos  
**Chapter 7 -- Adolescence Redefined_

* * *

"Quit it, Chibi…your nails weren't meant to be ingested." 

Omi, startled when he realized what he'd been doing, obediently folded his hands in his lap, well aware that biting one's nails wasn't a becoming habit. Thus, making sure to block out Youji's next complaint, the youth began to impatiently tap his foot against the tile of the hospital's waiting room. "Chiiibi…!"

Said 'Chibi' promptly shot out of his chair when a red-haired woman with free-flowing ringlets entered the room. Her face was drawn and strangely taut. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…you're not allowed to spend the night here."

Youji rolled his eyes, "Who gives a damn about hospital rules? This isn't a 'real' hospital anymore than I'm a 'real' chalkboard. If you're gonna bullshit us, at least make it good, Manx."

Red lips drew themselves into a thin line. "Fine then. Security measures. Kritiker doesn't want anyone here who isn't absolutely indispensable."

"Does that mean Aya-kun leaves, too?"

"Negative, Bombay. As leader, Abyssinian has the right to know the condition of each of the team's members."

"Yet another load of shit. Let's go, Chibi—"

* * *

"How do you think Ken-kun's doing, Youji-kun?" 

The older man considered the question, sighing loudly despite himself. "He looked pretty bad…but we've been thought worse. He'll get through it. Aya wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't."

Blonde eyebrows drew curiously together. "Aya-kun? Why wouldn't he?"

Youji smiled, ruffling Omi's hair as he dropped down beside the youth on the large couch of their hotel suite. "Because our Abyssinian's finally starting to realize that there's more to life than missions and money."

"Oh…" An understanding smile appeared on Omi's lips. "That'd explain his discomfort."

"Yeah. He hated that he was so affected by what happened today."

Omi nodded, letting his head fall wearily to rest against Youji's shoulder. "Ken-kun loves Aya-kun, doesn't he?"

"I'm willing to bet he does."

"Hmm…" another smile graced soft, pink lips, "I think Aya-kun loves Ken-kun, too."

"Yeah. If it were only as easy making him realize that. Something happened today, I'm willing to bet. It's not like Ken to say he's leaving Weiss—that thing with Yuriko was on impulse…now…now he'd have no reason to. Especially if he does care for Aya. It'd make no sense for him to leave the one he loves."

"Yeah…You're right."

"I was a Private Investigator." _And I can tell when something's amiss…_

"That's right!" Omi grinned at the man beside him, drawing up his legs to his chest with a smile, "I forgot!"

Youji offered the boy a gentle smile, unable to stop himself from stroking his cheek tenderly. A timid blush rose to Omi's cheeks. "We're all alone, now…"

A russet eyebrow rose. "Spectacular powers of observation, chibi."

Omi smiled despite the nervous fluttering in his tummy. Youji may have been his partner in Weiss, and he might've been a comrade in the shop…but this had been the first day in years that he'd looked at the man as _more_ than that…and that notion made him apprehensive. Especially when he knew the playboy's choice 'extra-curricular' activities.

"I'm not gonna rape you, Omi."

"Youji!"

A deep red flooded the boy's cheeks. Regarding him with a grin, Youji shrugged, "Well…? You're acting as if I am. Just thought I'd clear things up."

Omi blushed. "Idiot.'

"For you."

"Wh—" Omi's words were lost in a pleasant kiss. When that one was done, Youji pulled away, searching Omi's eyes for his reaction. A feral grin spread across his mouth as he realized what _that_ was. If Omi's deep and wavering breaths were any indication, he had no objections to what Youji'd done.

Leaning in once more, Youji was surprised when, instead of his closing the gap between them, Omi rose up eagerly, capturing his lips in a sloppy, but well-intentioned kiss. He was inexperienced, Youji knew, both through the kiss, and because of his living with him. Youji knew there'd only been one girl in Omi's life—and that'd been Ouka. Aside from her, he'd never known Omi to have harbored any romantic feelings for anyone else…or acted upon them for that matter.

But his inexperience was refreshing. Youji had grown tired of the multitude of woman who promised to pleasure him, only if they were pleasured in return. That wasn't what partnership was about; love was reciprocal, just because it was…those women made it out to be some egoistical practice.

No…in his being so new to relationships, Omi displayed an honesty to oneself and others that was admirable. He was more giving of himself than any of those women could ever hope to be. It was because of his naiveté that Omi could love him with such fervor…because he wasn't afraid to appear vulnerable; because he'd never had his heart broken. He didn't know any better.

This time it was Omi who pulled away, and he bit his lower lip uncertainly as he awaited Youji's response. "You're beautiful, you know that, chibi?"

Another blush, this one fainter. He was growing accustomed to the attention the older man was bestowing upon him…he was becoming more comfortable with the idea of him and Youji…together. And then, quite unaware of what he was doing, his tongue darted out to moisten his drying lips.

Sometimes, innocence could very well be the most sensual attribute in the world.

_But he's not innocent. Not dirty…no, but certainly not innocent._

Smiling at Youji's enticed expression, Omi scratched at his head, pulling off his cap and tossing it perfectly atop the dresser on the other side of the room. Turning, he challenged Youji to do the same. "I don't have a hat, chibi."

Mischievous smile alighting on normally gentle lips, Omi slowly pulled off Youji's jade sunglasses. Putting them on, and pouting when they slid off his too-small nose, he held them in front of Youji's face. "My aim's better, Youji-kun. Prove me wrong."

Rolling his eyes, but not bothering to outright say anything, he took the sunglasses from Omi, fingertips slyly coiling about the youth's fingertips at the same time, and closing his eyes, threw them at _another_ corner of the room. "How's my aim, chibi? They should've landed right on the curtain rod…held in place, no doubt."

Omi pouted. "But…I throw darts! My aim should be better."

Youji drew the boy's lips against his own once more, running his tongue ever-so-slightly against his lower lip. "Yes. You do. But I use wire. And that requires aim, too."

* * *

"How is he?" 

Echoing high heels paused on their way towards the end of the hall. Dark emerald eyes focused almost absently on an amethyst pair, knowing, more than seeing, the man who was sitting stiffly in the very corner of the waiting room, practically bathed in darkness. Those same green eyes narrowed impersonally. "It's not my place to say, nor yours to ask"

Manx might've been mistaken, but she could've sworn she heard a growl escape Abyssinian's pursed lips. He was intimidating. Manx figured that, had she not known him, she might've been just the least bit frightened. But she wasn't…because she knew better than that. Aya would never hurt an ally…much less a woman.

Aya wasn't the type to take no for an answer. "Do I have to ask myself—threaten the doctor with a 2 ½ foot long katana?"

His only answer was an unamused shrug. "Do what you like. Just remember where you are. Kritiker headquarters is hardly the place to stage a little show. You'd be surprised at the people who'd hit you back. Everyone here's a Weiss."

Though it shouldn't have, the statement caught Aya somewhat by surprise. "I'm the leader. I have a right to know."

"Not in this case, Abyssinian. Siberian's entitled to just as much privacy as you are. We certainly don't go around disclosing your sister's condition."

Quite undeterred, Aya followed Manx down the corridor towards Ken's room. "He's out of Weiss, then? A critical condition of his would only endanger the team."

"Abyssinian," Manx turned, fixing sharp eyes on the taller man, "Siberian shall remain in Weiss so long as he wills it. His condition is _nothing_ of your concern; should it encumber the missions is a decision taken by Kritiker and Persia. None other. Certainly not other Weiss."

* * *

"So just like that, then? He could be dying and all we get is a, 'mind your own business' from Manx?" 

Aya gave a stiff nod. He had to agree with Youji. However secretive Kritiker might've been, their recent attitude regarding Weiss members was somewhat disturbing…if not outright suspicious. "So…do you think he's all right?"

"Of course he's all right, Omittichi. You know how stubborn Ken can be. It's gonna take more than whatever he has to keep him down."

"But…he looked so _sick._ He _never_ gets sick, Youji…_never_."

This time, Aya found himself agreeing with Omi. Ken was, and had been, as far as they had known him, the epitome of health. His everyday soccer activities during the day, and his Weiss missions during the night, kept him in the best of shape. His eyes, always bright and shining, fitted perfectly into the tan of his face. His skin was never sallow; he was never lethargic. He was perfect.

He had always _been_ perfect…

Which was why they were all worried. Had Ken been the sickly type, then, though they would've been worried for him, it would've been in a smaller degree. But having a boy that had never been sick as long as they'd known him, suddenly cough up gallons of blood, was more than unnerving. It was frightening.

"He's coming home tomorrow night. Until then, none of Weiss is permitted near the area. 25 mile radius."

At Aya's news, both Youji and Omi stared aghast. Youji was the first to react. "Are you _serious?!_ Better yet, since you're always serious, are _they_ serious?!"

Aya shrugged, anger evident in the strained quality of his actions. He wasn't, and had never been particular of being pushed away. If there was something his persona couldn't stand—it was being purposely left out of something he felt he should've known. It irked him. "Pack your clothes."

"What? What for?"

At Youji's less than eloquent outburst, Aya nearly growled. "This hotel's only 10 miles from the hospital. Kritiker isn't comfortable with that distance."

* * *

Omi heaved a heavy sigh once they were all installed in their new hotel. "This is ridiculous, even by Kritiker's standards. They've had us do some inexplicable things before, but this is _by far_ once of the most farfetched ones." 

Both Aya and Youji nodded. Neither were at all at ease with the recent developments. Despite the fact that Omi was just as suspicious as the other Weiss, he was less annoyed by their actions. Throughout the entire car ride to the Sakura Blossoms Bed & Breakfast, the two had been tight-lipped, even to Omi's cheery and awkward attempts at lightening the situation.

"…Do you think…do you think we can call Ken-kun at least?"

Aya shook his head no. "They said no contact. They meant it. I wouldn't be surprised if we're being tracked right now."

At the remark, Youji looked about him absently, unamused smile painting itself upon his lips. "I'm tempted to off whoever it is, just to spite them."

"Youji-kun!"

"What? It's true. It isn't as if we've ever given them reason to doubt our loyalties."

Aya nodded once more in agreeance. "It's ridiculous, at this point, for them to do that kind of thing." Then, pausing, and placing a smooth finger to his lips, he jerked his head quietly to the right, so that they became aware of the diffused shadow near the right wall.

Youji nodded, narrowed eyes indicating he'd already noted the presence, and had waited for Aya to give silent directions on what to do. Omi's silent assent was a wide smile, "So…do you guys want dinner now—we can order out…I really wouldn't want to bother the Tanakas at this hour…"

Youji turned towards Omi, flirtatious smile lighting up his face, "All right then…Thai cuisine, or Chinese? Me an' Omi'll go. There's a restaurant a few minutes from here. We'll be back in a bit…"

"Do you have money?"

That was Aya, and he was motioning for Youji to follow in the act. The blonde, in turn, patted at his pockets sheepishly. "No, actually. I gave the cab who drove us here my last paycheck. The bastard."

Omi poked roughly at Youji's shoulder, but Aya ignored the comment entirely. "Let's go then, I have some in my jacket."

Then, all three moving with the false air of carelessness, the moved into the adjoining room where they knew—for certain—that someone was watching them.

* * *

"They're being watched as we speak." 

Persia, startled by the voice of his most trusted secretary, dropped the glass of water he'd been drinking. Then, message sinking in, he smiled ruefully while raising an eyebrow. "Didn't I specifically tell headquarters not to do such a thing?"

Manx shifted uncomfortably, throat tightening when she felt the scolding gaze of her superior alight on her. "It was for Siberian's own protection."

This time, Persia chuckled, dark brown eyes crinkling tiredly and reprovingly. "You don't really believe that Manx. None of the Weiss would do anything to hurt Siberian; their having disobeyed the order to remain away only denotes their care—not ill-will. Regardless…Kritiker's going to have to start recruiting. Next time I say something, do follow through on my orders, Manx. I'd hate to have to replace _you_ for insubordinance."

The redhead was speechless. There really wasn't anyway she could answer that…

"They're more powerful than any of us here…and—their power lies in that they're not afraid to question those around them…our establishments, and themselves. Being a Weiss is very tragic, Manx—because they know and understand how cursed their lives are…but they continue to do it anyway…because for them, it's a penance…"

* * *

His subconscious was swimming…swimming in an accursed shade of violet that was so familiar…so familiar that it ached. It spurred a throbbing pain in his heart to arise, and—likewise, made his yearning so tangible, that he feared it would destroy him. 

All through his semi-lucid fantasy, he was faintly aware of the steady and slight beeping pervading his dreams. As he focused on it, all the pain returned…centuring on his head, so that—by instinct—he raised his arms to his head, face twisting in pain. He groaned as he did so, the needles and IVs that had been injected into his arms, writhing about and pinching him in erroneous spots. His groans rose in volume.

And then…An over powering scream.

* * *

"That'd outta take care of him." 

Youji dusted his hands self-assuredly as he spoke. "And all without a hair out of place."

Omi smiled weakly despite himself. After spending the better part of an hour chasing down their tracker, tying him up, gagging him, and tossing him in the trunk of a random truck at the nearest Dairy Queen, they were all besides themselves with hunger. Though Youji had suggested they stay and have a sundae, neither Aya nor Omi were up for a sugar-filled dinner.

"I don't understand," Omi spoke between bites of his lo-mein, dabbing at his lips with a napkin as he did so, "what the point of _that_ was. Now Kritiker will only be _more_ suspicious of Weiss."

Youji shrugged at the blonde's inquiry, stretching and quite unintentionally (or maybe not) letting his leg brush against that of the younger boy's. Startled, and not expecting such a straight-forward flirtation, Omi dropped his fork, sending it clattering loudly on the floor. Aya looked up curiously, amethyst eyes bearing an unusual look of surprise, and Omi's cheeks burned a dark purple. Yes, purple.

Taking in Youji's amused smile, he made sure to kick the other man in the shins…hard. Reacting by instinct, Youji recoiled, falling backwards on his chair, and sending his plate of lo-mein flying into the air. For a moment, all was still…

And then, Omi's soft laughter broke the silence. His eyes twinkled in mirth as he double over, shoulders shaking with amusement, legs brought up to still the stress on his laughing stomach. And for a moment, flat on the floor as he was, all Youji contented himself with, was watching the small blonde—writhing with laughter—and hearing the soft, yet deeply mellowed texture of his voice. It made him realize—that split of a second—how much of a man Omi already was. Although his body might not have matured as quickly as his mind had, his voice—already deepening—held the tenor of a young man, yet the soft, vulnerable quality of a child.

Youji felt somewhat of an illicit stirring in his groin.

Damn him and his observations.

Standing up quickly, and knowing he was hardly the only one in Weiss with great powers of scrutinization, Youji made a point of returning to his chair, tossing his napkin roughly into his lap. Neither of his two companions seemed to notice…and if they did, they let Youji have his peace. For once, the older man was glad that Ken was absent from the scenario. He knew, for sure, that the brunette wouldn't hesitate to tease Youji—_whenever_ he was given the chance. And, in a sense, he supposed it would've been payback for all those times Youji had tormented Ken about his attraction to another redhead.

At the thought, Youji's eyes focused absently on their leader. He's been rather different as of late. He seemed…troubled, almost. Out of habit, Youji let his wandering fingers outline the shape of his glasses, frowning a bit when they slid down his nose. He didn't bother readjusting them. Most surprising of all, was that Aya was so deep in thought, that he hadn't even noticed the less than subtle gaze the blond was throwing his way. _And usually he glares at me for asking him to pass the ketchup._

If there _was_ anyone who was focused on him, it was Omi, but his naïve subtlety was almost depressing. The most he'd done the entire night was throw the wire-wielding assassin soft, inquiring looks. Looks which hardly indicated any of the things he'd been feeling…especially when Youji'd touched his leg. The touch had sent electric waves bouncing in every direction within his body. And, most of all…

Omi shifted uncomfortably. "Pass the ketchup, Youji-kun."

Soft, jade eyes slowly met his. They seemed confused for a minute, muddled and hazy—almost as if the blond hadn't been paying much attention to their dinner—before clearing up with alarming lucidity. Reaching for the blood-red bottle that lay a few centimeters to his right, Youji stifled a yawn as he handed it to his smaller comrade. "Here you go."

Pliable and tender fingertips curled about rough, calloused ones. The touch had been purposeful. Omi offered Youji a hesitant smile. And then, surprising him even more, "Aya-kun? Youji-kun and I are going to go over the mission plans…upstairs. We have to discuss our entry." He shot the older assassin a wary look, licking his lips quite unintentionally.

Aya, who was attempting to distract himself from the current situation by both trying to eat a bowl of lo-mein, and reading the day's newspaper, nodded numbly. He could've cared less what the other members of Weiss did…without Ken to balance their attitudes…everything seemed out of place. Granted, Omi tried his best to fill the atmosphere with his optimism, but without Ken to back up his playful assertions, he found himself flailing. Neither Youji nor Aya were, after all, the type to give positive—albeit unlikely—assurances.

"Okay. We'll be in my room…"

Youji followed Omi up the stairs of the small inn, taking in his surroundings without a second thought, assassin nature used to scrutinizing everything, all the while humming softly to himself. Although weary and not particularly eager to go over mission plans, there was little—if anything—that he could ever refuse the chibi. "Ne, Omittichi—"

Halfway up the next step, Omi turned, dark blond locks flying about his face, dark blue eyes searching an area above his head, only to glance down with a bit of a blush. He was used to Youji being taller than him; his being nearly a foot higher—courtesy of the steps—gave him a glimpse of what it might've felt to be taller. He shook his head at his inattentive mind. "Yeah?"

"What mission plans, exactly? Shouldn't we get Aya's packet, if anything? His contains all the relevant information after all and—"

Youji found himself speaking the rest of his sentence into a pair of very willing lips. Having been caught very much off guard, Youji teetered on his feet, hands reaching out instinctively to wrap around anything he could in order to maintain his balance. In that desperation, his hands fell around the boy's hips, succeeding in bringing him ever the closer to his body. Likewise, Omi's arms, smooth against him, came around his neck. A small squeal escaped his lips when he realized they were both dangerously close the falling down the stairs.

Instinct kicking in, and quite used to falling off rooftops, Omi made a point of arching his body inwards, pushing off his feet so that he fell backwards, his grip on Youji taking him down with him. With a pained grunt and quite breathless, Omi blinked open bright blue eyes, thankful his head hadn't smashed to pieces on the marble of the top floor. Turning his head slightly to the right, he discovered the reason. Youji had managed to wedge his forearm between his head and the floor. Omi flashed the older man above him a brilliant smile. "Thanks, Youji-kun."

_Damn that naiveté._

Positioned as they were, one atop the other, Youji could scarcely believe that the first thing out of the boy's mouth had been a vibrant thanks. As it was, more than one illicit image was surging through his mind, accompanying sound effects and all. He closed his eyes to try and clear his mind. A soft, pouting voice eased them open once more. "Are you okay?"

Youji forced his lips into a twitching smile. "Fine."

Omi's frown deepened. Sighing slightly, he turned on his side, pushing the older man off him, and crawled away until he was sitting, Indian style, a few feet from Youji's still prostate body. "I don't understand you."

Youji's eyebrow quirked up confusedly, "What?"

Omi looked purposefully forward, stretching out his legs and then bringing them up to his chest. "I don't understand you. It's okay for you to kiss _me_ whenever you want, but whenever I do it, you run away like I've got the plague."

"Omi—that's not…"

"It is and you know it…besides," the youth paused and buried his face in his palms, "I don't want to be alone right now…not with Ken-kun sick like he is, and Aya-kun being so…sad."

"Omi—"

"This is stupid," brushing roughly at his eyes, Omi stood clumsily, dark blonde locks falling into his face, and made his way to his room, shutting his door with a soft, resounding bang.

Youji looked painfully towards the closed door.

* * *

_Youji-Omi are taking over..._


	8. Warm to the Touch

* * *

**_In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos_**  
_Chapter 8 -- Warm to the Touch_

* * *

The situation was just getting too out of hand. With Ken in the hospital, Aya in a less than sociable mood, and Omi angry at him…well…Youji felt as though he were the only sane one in the entire Weiss. "Glory be, but isn't the world twisted."

Meanwhile, Aya—who had been somewhat annoyed that Youji and Omi think him so stupid as to not have noticed what was going on—could only imagine what had happened after he'd heard a muted thud, followed by a louder, sharper one. And, following those very thoughts, he was surprised to note that…despite having a pretty clear idea of what was going on, he wasn't at all perturbed…or, well, uncomfortable.

It made him wonder if that had anything to do with Ken…and what he'd been feeling for him lately. He couldn't deny, after all, however much it bothered his emotional shield, that he _did_ harbor feelings for Ken. And that, those feelings, if not love—were certainly above any type of brotherly affection.

Hell. There _was_ no brotherly affection. Aya's cheeks burned despite his better judgment. He was after Ken's body just as much as he was after his heart, and he knew it.

Ken was a beautiful specimen. A sharp contrast to himself—all tan caramel and dark chocolate—the soccer player's lean body was one that drew the eyes. Perhaps it was his exuberance that attracted attention towards him; that constant energy that seemed never-ending, always optimistic…always willing to bubble excitedly, regardless of anyone who might find it irritating or out of place…regardless of him.

Aya had often times wondered what Ken thought of him. Until recently, he hadn't really considered the possibility that the brunette feel much for him, other than a healthy camaraderie…but at the same time, he himself had never considered what _he_ felt towards him. He's never paused to think about it. And now…sitting as he was, cold amethyst eyes fixed on the mug before him, subconsciously comparing the cold coffee to Ken's own warm eyes, he realized that if there was ever a moment for him to decide that—the moment was right then and there.

Granted, he wasn't stupid. He'd read enough books, seen enough soap operas, heard Youji's moan and groan about his lovers without cease, and experienced his own affairs as he aged—so he knew how the rules of attraction worked. What he _didn't_ know, was whether or not what he felt towards Ken was merely physical…and if that were so, if he were gay.

Aya had never quite been the type to question his sexuality. He's been straight most of his life—following the traditional trend of teenage boys, yet never really understanding _why_ he dated some of the girls he did…but that had all ended when Aya-chan was injured. He went asexual, if anything. And he never really weighed his options after that. Love was dead to him—and so was sex, for that matter, because as much as he might have liked to extricate the moral laws nearly carved into his soul, he'd always believed sex was the ultimate expression of love.

So…did that mean he loved Ken? He certainly desired the boy well enough. He could scarcely count the nights in which he'd woken up in a cold sweat, sheets moist and soaked against him, a thick coral rising to his cheeks as he realized exactly what had transpired in his mind throughout the night. But…that didn't necessarily mean he _loved_ him. Physical desire wasn't the same as emotional desire—notion which, he realized, had led him back in a circle to his initial pondering: whether or not he was gay.

Did being gay mean being _physically_ attracted to another man? Because…if that was the only criteria, then he certainly fit that description—if only in relation to Ken. He wasn't opposed to homosexuality—yet, speaking honestly, he had never really explored the possibilities of _being_ gay. It was almost as if, in his upraising, he had been instructed to believe he could be nothing _but_ straight. Either that or a monk.

Aya snorted. Yeah, right. A monk who had illicit dreams of a brunette nearly every night, and yearned to kiss his lips whenever he was near enough. A frown quirked at Aya's lips. He really was going to have to start curbing that craving…or he'd end up crushing the weak soccer-player to his arms, embracing him into a soft kiss just to satisfy his curiousity.

And he was curious.

He wondered how Ken tasted…how he smelled—which, relatively he knew…but the aroma of skin to skin was entirely different than the mere whiff one got from leftovers in the air—and how soft his lips were. He'd never kissed another man…Aya's fingertips absently came to his own lips, tracing them absently, ignoring the strange tickling it provoked.

He wondered if a man's lips were as soft as a woman's. They didn't wear lipstick…so, he supposed, their flavor was sharper, huskier—not as sweet—and…maybe rougher.

Again, his fingertips came to his own lips. They weren't rough. But that was partially due to the fact that he had to wear Vaseline on them, having to suffer the wrath of blisters and bruises otherwise. It was one of the consequences of his being so fair-skinned. Did Ken wear Vaseline? Not that he knew of…but, considering the fact that he spent so much time outdoors—both in hot and cold whether—he doubted the brunette had issues with chapping his lips. Either he protected them, or he was used to the abuse.

Which, on another note, made Aya wonder exactly _how_ much abuse Ken had undergone. He'd seen scars…a multitude of them, on his body the night he'd brought him back to the Koneko and changed him out of that goddamned bloodstained shirt. They weren't light and scattered, but rather, thick and raised, all cluttered about his arms and abdomen. They made him wonder what had happened to him.

He'd almost asked on a couple of occasions. But he hadn't been sure how the brunette would've reacted, so he hadn't bothered. Ken might've been one of the nicest guys around, but when he felt threatened, he became Siberian….and Siberian was hardly nice—he was dangerous.

If he were to be asked, Aya would probably say that Ken was liable to be the most dangerous Weiss. Him and Omi. The two were much too sheltered despite themselves. They had no real outlet for their anger. Youji…Youji had his women and his alcohol…He had his sister and Takatori…but Ken and Omi…their only outlets only made them become all the more involved in their murders.

Ken had soccer. But, each and every time he _played_ the damned sport, he was reminded that he'd never really be able to _play_ it again. His solace was his damnation. The same was true for Kase. His only friend was the one who'd betrayed him.

Omi was no different. He was darker than anyone else could ever perceive him to be. And, when push came to shove, he was liable to shove back harder than anyone in Weiss would ever dare to…and that was because he'd _founded_ Weiss…because—though everyone seemed to forget—he had been _trained_ to _be_ a Weiss. It was difficult to comprehend—to think of, even—that someone as sweet and gentle as Omi could be so _dangerous._ But he was—and they all knew it. They'd all seen him kill…murder. There was no sugar-coating the fact.

Youji was certainly in for a surprise. And…all things considered—Aya figured—Youji should've been the one most aware of the fact that Omi _was_ no child. Perhaps his body was, though, even that alibi was beginning to wear thin. Aya knew well enough that Youji avoided any type of relationship with Omi that wasn't merely a filial one—and that was largely because he feared 'staining' the purity of the youth. Notion at which, no doubt, the young blonde would probably laugh. Omi's existence was a bitterly truthful one. He was happy, optimistic, true—because it was in his nature—but that didn't mean that he negated the truth of his persona: he knew what he was better than anyone did. And Youji was gonna have to figure that out soon, or risk losing him.

* * *

He really shouldn't have been drinking. But…after his sixth glass of Bacardi, any notion of self-restraint had promptly flown out the window. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware that Aya would murder him on his return, for one of two reasons. The first and most obvious was that neither were equipped with their weapons—should they be tracked or attacked. The second was simply that he'd gotten drunk….again. The chibi would probably be awfully disappointed, too…but then, it was his fault he was drunk in the first place.

He needed to get laid. That was what it was. He needed some sort of release—be it sexual or emotional. He just needed to get away from the reality that was Weiss…and as much as he hate to admit it, Omi was just as much a Weiss as the rest.

"Meow, meow, whines the little kitten…better yet…_big_ kitten."

A wide, lethargic grin drew itself on Schulidich's pink lips when Youji turned towards him, mildly acknowledging of his presence. "What do you want?"

"My, my—not very sociable, are we?" Schulidich made a point of climbing agilely onto the barstool, so that his legs brushed against the thighs of Youji's own. "But to answer your question…just the same as you."

Youji's alcohol-fuddled brain found it difficult to decipher the redhead's meaning. Raising his head slightly from where it had been absently examining the deep, golden color of his drink, he cast an odd glance at the rambunctious young man, who was currently sporting a toothy grin contrary to his usual, before quirking a russet eyebrow in thought.

Schulidich's grin widened a fraction. "Exactly, Balinese."

And then, "No, thanks."

Schulidich remain undeterred. He hadn't turned on the charm for the man simply because he'd figured—and read enough to guess—that he was most certainly in the 'mood' for what he was offering. And…given Brad's less than gentle suggestion that he go be the whore he was, Schulidich wasn't quite in the mood to disappoint his leader by doing the opposite. "C'mon, kitten…"

Youji was conscious of the fact that, as the redhead had leaned over to whisper the illicit in his ear, his body had reacted rather unprofitably to the contact. He cursed inwardly, and heard the telepath laugh as a result of it. "You're not shy, I know that…so what's stopping you?"

His hand was on his thigh and, despite the amount of people standing dangerously near, it was threatening to move upwards. He was suddenly breathless. Youji couldn't remember a time when someone had been so damn…brazen with him. It was usually he who played the part of the daring lover—he'd never been the one courted…and suddenly being the recipient of that attention made him feel strangely aroused. "That's the point…"

Another nip at his ear. He could almost feel the German's triumphant smile when, after being only slightly prompted, Youji stood, falling into the shorter man's more alert embrace. He was a lot stronger than he'd ever given credit for, that was for sure.

"You wanna dance, kitten?"

A dull nod. _Dance…_

Youji hadn't even noticed music had been playing. A rich, intoxicating chuckle filled his ears, "Of course, we're in a club…bar…whatever—of course there's music…of the best kind, even."

And, as he was pulled towards the dance floor, vision crossing momentarily, Youji only then began to take in the full image of his enemy. Dressed in his usual extravagant fashion, the redhead stood out among all; he was wearing a loose, skin-bearing silk vest, hip-hugging denim jeans, and his usual black boots. He would've been—to anyone else—utterly unattainable…to Youji he was but a mere equal. His curiosity was suddenly picquied. Why _had_ he shown up at _this_ bar of all places? Might as well do Weiss a favor and find out. At least that way Aya wouldn't murder him on sight.

His head was cocked amusedly towards Youji, as if wondering exactly how the slighty inebriated Weiss was planning on manipulating information out of him, when he himself was the one more likely to do so. Regardless, he was on his own mission tonight, and finding Balinese at the club—as effortlessly as he was dressed—had been more of a coincidence than anything else. _Chew on that, Crawford._

He received the stumbling blonde in his arms easily, strangely enticed by the smell of alcohol that slowly filtered up to his nostrils. He withheld the sudden urge to taste the drink he knew still lingered on the man's lips. He wanted this to be a chase…a challenge, and he sensed—more than knew—that the blonde was ready to give up to anything he proposed, he was so thrashed and melancholy already. Should he kiss Youji, chances were the two would end up ravishing one another on sight. And…as entertaining a mental image as that was, he doubted Balinese would appreciate it by morning. Besides, Schulidich was a promising lover, and he wasn't planning on wasting the opportunity to show one of the Weiss the fact. Hell, if Brad didn't want him, then he sure as hell would find someone who did.

The music changed tempo then, and just as Youji had begun to sway, he seemed to realize that the beat was now completely different. A bit of an absent smile grazed his lips and, looking towards Schulidich, he looked expectantly towards him, as if waiting for the latter to begin dancing. The redhead didn't object. He loved being the center of attention even more than he loved himself. He smiled at the sheer idea.

He moved his head carelessly to the music, feeling the beat throb through his veins, suddenly enthralled with the situation…and he was one with the song—body moving almost symmetrically with the guitar, strands of fiery red flying to and fro with the synthesizer…and Schulidich was at ease amidst the chaotic chorus of the song. Halfway through the second stanza he was mildly aware that another body had joined his movements, echoing—if not flat out predicting—his every action…and he could feel the uncertainty that the other body exuded, uncertainty which was promptly replaced by confidence, and abruptly—without his Gift ever receiving knowledge of it—he was being kissed, lost within his dancing and forgetting—if only momentarily, of who would be watching.

Youji wasn't and had never been, one for public displays of affection—or lust, in this case—but damn it, did the German have a way with physicality. He had scarcely finished kissing him, than the telepath had turned tables, pushing Youji against the surface of the bar, so that the ingrain of the material rubbed roughly against the very edges of his exposed back. Youji complained. He had never been a quiet lover. If he wanted something, he damn well said it—if something pissed him off, then he said that, too.

He _was_ surprised, however, when—instead of smacking him further into counter, as Youji had expected Schulidich would do—the other man let up slightly, lodging his forearm between the cool porcelain and Youji's warm, pliable flesh. His fingertips brushed ever so slightly against Youji's spine. A shiver ran through him. Never would he have thought that the other man could be so considerate. "I'm not that much of a bastard, kitten. Besides…anything you feel, I feel twofold."

And, while he was left wondering exactly what that was supposed to mean, Schulidich scooped him up slightly, pushing him backwards so that they were now inside the actual bar—as in, the bartender's isle. It was darker there, the only light that diffused within being the red and blue of the disco ball. It was perfect as far as either of them was concerned.

And, less inhibited by unwanted gazes—though that had never bothered Schulidich before—the redhead attacked Youji almost ferociously, dropping insatiable kisses along his collarbone, pulling inordinately at his shirt, willing it to reveal even more of that exquisitely milky flesh. And here he'd thought Abyssinian was pale…

He didn't bother asking the blonde to dispose of his shirt; he'd never been the type to ask. Instead, he worked casually around it, letting cool fingertips slide beneath the warm, wooly fabric, not surprised that his rival's skin was hot to the touch. Pulling apart from the other's lips, he pressed a kiss just below Youji's jaw. "What are you doing wearing a knitted turtleneck to a club, Balinese?"

Youji seemed not care for Schulidich's implied taunt, choosing instead to bring the German's body closer still, his own fingertips working to undo the ties at the redhead's vest. Schulidich smiled almost amusedly against his lips, shifting his weight towards his elbows, having been pulled down to his knees above the blonde. He raised his body slightly, capturing Youji's hands in his own, and shook out his crimson mane. Youji's brow quirked up confusedly. His breathing was unsteady, cheeks flushed from contact, a small mark of red already appearing where the German's lips had been only minutes earlier. But Schulidich's gaze wasn't on him any longer. His hand had flown towards his right hip, and his eyes were narrowed. Hair tousled as it was, and with the vest open and revealing the litheness of his frame, he was more than a desirable picture. Youji arched his neck to see what had so interested Mastermind.

His hazy eyes could barely make out a couple—young, teenagers he guessed—coming their way. Jade eyes traveled towards Schulidich's hip. From the scanty light that entered, he could very vaguely make out a metal gleam. A gun. Mastermind had good instincts. He'd heard the two approaching when Youji had failed to take note of their arrival.

Catching the thought, the redhead smirked slightly, "Heard their thoughts, more than they themselves. But thanks for the compliment, either way."

And then, roughly, he was being yanked to his feet, in a manner quite unlike Mastermind's prior gentleness, and was pulled in a random direction. Youji found himself unwillingly complying. A few seconds later, they had passed the caressing couple, and the blonde found himself growling. He was tempted to wrench his hand away for Schulidich. As it was, he was already resisting the man's pull, digging his feet into the trafficked carpet of the club. And then his vision went black. He froze entirely.

He knew he was still moving, and the tell-tale grip of Mastermind's hand told him precisely where, but he wasn't sure if his faded vision was a result of the alcohol or of something someone had slipped in his drink.

Seconds later, the lights in his head went on again. Not used to the sudden brightness, his pupils contracted painfully, and he brought a hand to his eyes in instinct. He heard Mastermind's chuckle once more, and the lights were flipped off. "Better?"

Youji was about to complain, having torn his hand from in front of his face, when he was attacked once more, this time much more explicitly, and had his turtleneck fly off before he realized it was halfway across the room. This time, having exposed new flesh, Schulidich wasted no time in littering Youji's defined torso with hungry kisses, holding the latter captive by the wrists, so that he could do little more than writhe upwards against him. He was strong, Mastermind noted, but not lucid enough to be able to fend him off.

Not that he wanted to fight him.

He needed this…and he wasn't ashamed to admit it.

* * *

"Aya-kun?"

A soft knock.

Aya shifted towards his other side in bed, squeezing his eyes tighter shut.

"Aya-kun?"

The young man turned on his stomach, wishing wistfully that the nagging voice he heard was part of some nightmare.

Another knock, this one harder. "Aya-kun?"

With a growl and a grimace, Aya rolled on his back and glared at the ceiling. That would have to do for now. Then, standing despite his better instincts, he padded towards the door, seeing the beam of light that permeated his room towards the underside of the door, and dreading the idea that he'd be stepping into that light momentarily. He threw open the door, irritation more than slightly evident.

Omi smiled thankfully at his appearance, seeming only slightly remorseful for having woken the older man. Then, his smile wavered. "Have…Have you seen, Youji-kun? I don't know where he is and…well…it's really _late_—if not _early_ since its tomorrow."

Aya stared at the young blonde for a few seconds, hearing but not quite understanding what he was saying. His brain was still asleep. "What?"

Omi shifted his weight, then glanced at Aya. "Well, earlier today we were attacked—and then Youji's disappeared…so….I'm worried that, well…"

"Have you called his phone?"

Omi's cheeks darkened. "Yes. Five times. He doesn't answer."

Aya ran his fingertips through his hair, the action one he wished he could curb himself of, and looked plaintively at Omi. "I doubt he's in any trouble. It's not the first time he's 'disappeared' for the night—so he's probably out drunk or with some woman."

Omi's face fell. He was about to speak when the phone rang. Making a beeline towards the closest extension—which happened to be in Aya's room—Omi forgot about his usual politeness, and rushed into the pristine room, pulling the receiver to his ear almost frantically. Aya let it slide. He knew how the blonde must be feeling after all.

Aya paid little mind to the conversation that took place, until he heard Omi gasp and ask an urgent question. Turning curiously towards him, Aya cocked his head to the side, just in time to see Omi hang up. Looking positively shaken, he shifted towards his leader, blinking bright blue eyes repeatedly to try and clear them from their tears. "He…Persia says that Ken woke up…but—I…he's not that good, Aya-kun…"

The redhead paused in midstep, just about ready to shake the youth, when the foreboding words escaped his lips. _He's not that good, Aya-kun…_

"Persia…he says that—he woke up screaming and…he—he tore all the wires off him and…and he slashed his left wrist…"

* * *

The drive to the hospital was quiet, deadly even. Omi doubted anyone short of Berserker would've attempted to try and cajole a sentence out of Aya, then. He's tried calling Youji a few times more, but he'd gotten voicemail every time. The actual phone call had only been answered once, and then promptly cut. So, he'd left a message. But if Youji was anything like him, by the time he'd check the message, They would probably already be back at the Koneko.

* * *

The next morning, Youji awoke with a magnificently pounding hangover, hair mussed and tangled, body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He turned his head sideways to find himself face to face with a gloriously nude Schulidich, still dozing, positioned on his tummy, arms tucked beneath a pillow to cradle his head. A sheet was splayed over his hips, riding dangerously low—the curve of his rear discernable despite it.

He didn't give a startled jump at the realization that he'd slept with his enemy, nor had one of those forlorn melancholic thoughts of what his 'true love' would think. He was much too jaded for those types of histrionics. Besides, he wasn't stupid, he'd known full well what he'd gotten himself into the night before. What _did_ surprise him, though, was the fact that Mastermind was still there, curled up—although still relatively far—next to him. Common sense had told him the redhead would be gone before the sun rose. Either he had been too tired after his performance, or he had expected Youji to be the one to leave. Regardless, he figured he might as well make his escape while he could. The mood of the night before certainly wouldn't be repeated that morning, and he didn't doubt Mastermind's capacity to shoot a big, large, gaping hole into his already throbbing head.

Sighing, and looking around absently for his clothes—all parts of which had flown amazingly far and become lodged in the oddest of places—his gazed landed once more on the unruly mass of hair that was Mastermind's head. He couldn't help the smirk that graced his lips. If there was something to be said about Oracle's right-hand man, it was that his agility in the battlefield transmitted perfectly to his ability in the bedroom. He was a good lover.

Youji sat up despite himself, missing the warmth his enemy's body radiated almost instantly, and let his legs hang from the side of the bed, glancing at the bedside clock. Two-thirty. He ran an absent hand through his snarled locks. He had certainly slept in. He wondered if Mastermind was a heavy sleeper…thus far, everything pointed to an assertion.

Youji made a point of stretching then, neck cracking loudly amidst the otherwise silent room, and he yawned as he reached for his cell-phone. He stared a bit incredulously at it. 25 missed calls. 8 voice-messages. "Either the women really missed me, or the Chibi had something urgent to say."

Picking up his phone and dialing the Inn's number, he let the call ring six or seven times before hanging up. Similar treatment to the Chibi's cell reaped the same results. Brow quirked, and a slight frown marring his pale face, he punched in his voice-mail's number, pressing in the keys to the password when prompted. All the while, he was unaware that Mastermind had awoken, and was staring at him through lidded emerald eyes, admiring the smooth, muscular curve of his back and tapered waist, before giving into a feline yawn. He scanned Youji's mind out of habit, remorse twinging at the edges of his subconscious at violating the man's obvious trust, and had decided to withdraw when his current thoughts caught his attention. He was worried…deathly worried…for someone.

Schulidich's eyebrows drew together. For who? Bombay? No…he was fine…for—for Siberian. It made sense, he decided, the last time he'd seen the brunette, he'd been a staggering mess. Schulidich was startled when Youji clicked his phone closed with a murderous thump.

"Fuck…"

"That's what I'm here for,"

The redhead made it a point to smile tauntingly at Youji, shifting on his side so that the entire expanse of his torso and lower abdomen was visible. He wasn't doing it on purpose, either, being sensual was part of his nature—finely perfected by what had been his initial profession. Youji made a point of ignoring the pose. Instead, he made to stand, looking for all the world like his best friend had died, and paused only when he felt Schulidich's almost tentative desire to speak.

The German said nothing, words dying in his throat, but held on to Youji's wrist as the latter moved away. When the blonde turned towards him, jade eyes curious, he was surprised to take in the concern—if it could even be called that—that twinkled in Mastermind's eyes. "Siberian…is he okay?"

Hesitant at first, and later not sure how to respond, Youji looked away, still feeling the burn of Schulidich's touch on his arm, and bit his lip. "I…I don't know."

* * *

_And thus, Schu makes an appearance! Chappie inspired largely by Nittle Grasper's __Shining Collection and __Sleepless Beauty….blessed be Gravitation. _


	9. Pandora's Box

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos  
**Chapter 9 -- Pandora's Box_

* * *

He hated that beeping. That incessant, haze-inducing beeping. He'd heard it more times in his life than he would have liked, and given that fact, he associated the damned thing with death...which, minding the present situation, wasn't a profitable correlation to make. 

Ken was in the psychological ward of the hospital. He'd been moved—after much prodding from the doctors—from the ICU for critical injuries, to ICU for neurological disorders...Which tweaked on his nerves just the slightest bit. He wasn't sure he _wanted_ Ken to be in the ward for neurological attention; it made the youth sound as though he were crazy.

Although the doctor had made every effort possible to assure him that Ken was, in fact, in good condition, and that his movement into the opposite wing of the hospital did not mean as much as Aya thought it did, the crimson-haired assassin was finding it difficult to _be_ in that particular place. Especially when he could hear fanatical screams periodically filtering into the silence of the room…Which is not to say that Ken hadn't contributed to the noise; he certainly had, and—he was told—that was one of the reasons why he was moved. The other was because the doctors feared he'd commit suicide.

It was depression, they said offhandedly, a depression that was common to patients who had only just learned of their 'condition.' Their _condition_. Aya didn't have to know _what_ Ken had to understand that, at that point, any type of condition that induced the brunette to try and slash the veins of his wrist, was serious. For a moment, Aya couldn't help but wonder if Ken's recent outcry had anything to do with Kritiker. He was still livid that Persia had threatened them, should they attempt to remain with Ken any longer.

As if Persia were their damned father. Aya snorted.

Regardless, any humor or anger he might've felt was quenched with one look at Siberian. The young man seemed to be sinking into his bed, the pallor of his cheeks alarming, and the sunken nature of his eyelids just the slightest bit disconcerting. He had been told that was due to the bloodloss. Thankfully, and much to Aya's chagrin, Kritiker had a particular policy requiring that all its members and employees donate blood whenever possible, so that they had a sort of 'reserve' of their own blood, should anything happen, to transfuse. It had been no problem to find Ken's own blood type, as a result, and—having run tests on the plasma prior—the reserve had been administered to the young man within minutes.

They had the same bloodtype, he'd noticed. AB. Somewhat rare—difficult to find in certain areas—and very character denoting. And at the same time…their personalities were so different. Ken was boisterous where he was quiet, hot-tempered where he was calm, and affectionate where he was cold. The more superstitious side of him couldn't help but wonder what his zodiac sign was. Or what day he'd been born, should push come to shove.

He himself had been born on a Wednesday. Which, astrologically, left him rather screwed. His life would be 'full of woe.' It certainly didn't help that the stars had been abnormally aligned when he had been born. The whole damn world had seemed intent of negating him a positive arrival. Which was odd, because he'd had—at least comparatively to the others—a relatively normal and happy childhood. All the damning energy had probably remained latent all those years, fermenting and rotting amidst itself, waiting for the perfect moment to ruin his life. And, sure as hell is hot, it erupted on Aya's sixteenth birthday. He had been eighteen. Well past a child if speaking socially, still rather young physically and emotionally.

He'd spent some time at the psychiatric ward of the hospital, too. Not that particular one, no…but enough that he understood that he would never be healed of his psychological malady. Psychological diseases were different than physical ones; they didn't 'go away'. They could only be dealt with; one had to live _around _them, in a sense. He couldn't 'cure' whatever scars he harbored in his mind, he could only accept them and move on, hoping that, eventually, he'd forget.

Which would only result in _another_ type of psychological syndrome. Post traumatic stress disorder. How lovely. Just what he needed. Another tally to add to his list of psychological anomalies.

He looked towards Ken absently then, wondering what demons plagued _him_; wondering how he dealt with his own scars. They had different methods of achieving the same end—their lives were similar, except for the fact that Ken had never really had a mother, and he'd been forced into the life of an assassin by a rather weak cause. Or, at least it seemed weak. He could only imagine how wounding a betrayal at the hands of a loved one could be. Though, were he to balance things, Aya would figure it hadn't just been Kase's betrayal that had unhinged Ken. It had been the fact that he would no longer be able to do what he liked, what he loved.

Damn him. Damn him and damn Takatori. And Persia. And anyone who had ever contributed to their joint demise.

As he thought, his eyes lingered on Ken's torn forearm, longing for that hand to twitch, though his logic told him better, as the boy had been injected with a tranquilizer that would render him deadened for the better part of eight hours. His violet hued gazed panned over the scraggly, deformed flesh, and he pondered over what the doctor had told him. _'It's a wonder…' he'd shook his pale blond head at Aya's taller, imposing form, 'he couldn't find anything sharp, so he scraped at his skin with the remote control's battery shield until it bled…it'll scar badly—particularly because we had to disinfect it, and because…well…it was a rather blunt object, so it wasn't the type of linear blemish we could sew back neatly together, to put it bluntly and rather vulgarly.' _

A battery shield. It was beyond him why Ken would've chosen _that_ of all things. He could only imagine how much more painful it had been to try and get the rounded edge of the damned thing to break through his flesh than to actually nearly bleed to death. A quick glance around the room told him, without a doubt, that there were a good five more things there that were a great deal sharper. The most obvious being the glass vase that was a few feet to the right of Ken's bed, vase that harbored the large, colorful array of flowers Omi and Youji had brought in to cheer him up. And then, the thought struck…was Ken even _able_ to move? It would certainly explain why he hadn't gotten up and broken the glass. Besides, if he had really wanted to commit suicide, blowing air in one of the many needs poking into his veins would have proved a great deal more efficient.

Maybe he had wanted a painful death…A reassurance that he had indeed been alive before he died. It was certainly a plausible idea. For them, any type of penance was welcome. And, to a certain extent, Aya understood Ken's reasoning. If any of the Weiss were to die, they all knew they wanted to die in pain—and it wasn't a sadistic notion, or masochistic inclinations, but rather, the knowledge that they had taken so much life that it was almost unfair that they die painlessly. It was yet another psychological repercussion of being what they were.

For Ken, the loss of blood from the cut had been almost too much than his already anemic body could handle. And, as with before, the doctor had assured him that Ken had felt pain as he did the damage to his body….but, strangely, had screamed just before he passed out.

When the nurses rushed into the room a few minutes later, product of a little boy who had been passing by hearing the anguished cry, they found the young brunette a literal mess. His brown hair, mussed with sweat and askew, did little to hide the open, dilated pupils, and the blood all around was hardly any more encouraging. The task of cleaning Ken up and getting him further medical attention was made even more difficult by the fact that he had removed all the needles in his body, and tossed them haphazardly about him, so that some jutted out of his body—in places where he'd fallen back down after losing consciousness—and others lay gleaming about him. Medical personnel better than anyone knew the dangers of blood to blood contamination, so they had been tedious in removing every needle before even beginning to tend to Ken's new injuries, and even then, were careful of imbedding any needle he had unintentionally rolled onto.

When he and Omi had arrived, Ken had already been moved, but they hadn't been allowed to see him for another three hours. Hours in which Omi had been frantically trying to contact the tall, blonde member of Weiss without much luck. The doctor on shift then had wanted to speak with them, at which point Omi had chosen to linger in the waiting room, assuring Aya that anything the uniformed man had to say was more Aya's business than his own, and not wanting to see one of his friends in such a state. He had a feeling it would be deeply shameful for Ken…knowing others had seem him in that condition. Aya, Omi was sure, Ken would forgive; it was hardly difficult for the brunette to remain angry at the redhead as it was, and the boy also knew that Aya wanted time alone with Ken. He didn't want to be in the way. Especially not when Ken's condition wasn't very stable.

Aya could only remembered bits and pieces of what Dr. Yamashiko had said. Between staring at the broken youth, and listening to what the physician had to say, the leader of Weiss had spared the latter very little a chance, except for when the doctor suggested they move Ken to another ward. He'd exploded. The doctor's argument was that, at the present moment, Ken was too unstable to be allowed to remain without round-the-clock medical attention and that, due to his attempt at suicide, it was hospital policy that he be transferred. Aya had roared, with rather well composure—given the circumstances—that if the hospital staff had not been so busy counting their dollar bills, Ken would've received appropriate surveillance and would scarcely have attempted what he had.

It had taken Omi, Manx, and about a dozen uniformed nurses to soothe him into a chair, promising that Ken would be all right, and that the hospital prided itself on harboring the least casualties in the entire area. Not that the fact was all that heartening. Aya didn't know how he was expected to be lightened at the fact that people in that place didn't die as much as they did in others. Death was death, whether it be one or twenty, and the concept that they try to sell him confidence with that type of logic was irritating. Aya had told them—most explicitly Manx—that Ken had not rather become a statistic, as he had very little qualms about blowing everything in the remote 'area' straight to hell. _'And don't think you'll be rid of me then, either.'_

He could be frightening when he wanted to be. Thankfully, they had been informed that they could visit Ken then, and the staff had been spared his wrath.

And now, it was just the two of them, in the—save for the beeping—silent room. He was free to stare at Ken all he wanted, without having to fear Youji's teasing, or bear Omi's knowing bright blue eyes…and…he could do so many things without having even the chocolate-haired youth himself know it. He was practically comatose.

He flinched the moment the thought left his mind, remembering his own sister, a few hours away, in another hospital, in almost the same condition. He moved slightly away from Ken.

His conscious was fighting against his desire. He'd never kissed a man, save for his father, and that scarcely compared with the fervor and unsettledness he felt when faced with kissing Ken. He had kissed him so many times in his mind, and it had been so perfect each time—slow, rhythmic, and always eliciting a reaction from the other man. But…in those dreams the brunette had been awake—lively and energetic as was his custom, initially rejecting his kisses, only to meld to them passionately afterwards. His cheeks burned a little as he realized where his mind was going.

He was distracted by a disordinate change in the infernal beeping of the room. It was speeding up, which could mean one of two things: Ken was seconds away from cardiac arrest, or he was awakening. The former was too drastic for someone in such good a physical condition, he wagered, but the latter was just medically impossible. Unless, of course, Ken had been exposed to those tranquilizers previously and had developed an immunity to them on account of it. It was a possibility. Especially since they were all already quite immune to some anesthetics and antibiotics—he and Ken especially, because they'd been scraped, slashed, and shot many times on account of their close range weapons.

When he looked back towards the youth, it was to see him lick his lips, their cracked countenance looking almost painful, and let out a dry croak. "Ken…?"

A dry cough followed his query, and the brunette drew in a particularly laborious breath before Aya got the hint and fetched some water from the pitcher, serving him a cup. He helped the boy up a bit roughly, all masculinity flowing out in that single less-than-gentle touch, and pressed the pliable surface of the cup's plastic against Ken's lips. A small slurp followed.

Once the young man pulled back, Aya nudged him, fearing that he fall back into that sedated slumber for the remainder of the day. Ken responded with a slurred murmur, wincing when his lips cracked, and feeling dizzy as Aya lowered him onto his bed once more. "Ken…?"

His voice was softer now…more resigned, but the soccer-player heard it nonetheless, and the alarmed nature of it made a certain warmth spread through his insides, until it touched the very tips of his toes, and electrified the hairs of his neck. Unable to restrain himself, he responded, fingertips reaching out blindly towards the voice, shakingly coming to rest on a pair of soft, moist lips. Unconsciously, and not used to the feel of such calloused hands upon his mouth, Aya licked his own lips, tongue just barely grazing the tip of Ken's outstretched thumb. He shivered, but said nothing, his only reaction being a slight tug on the momiage that draped over the right side of the redhead's face. Aya followed the movement by letting his head fall forward, aware that—with Ken's hand clenched loosely on his hair—and his own leaning body, they were only inches away from one another. And then, his voice low and broken, "Have you ever kissed a boy before, Aya?"

Aya found himself too startled to answer, and whatever reply he might have had was robbed when Ken gave him a stronger pull, so that the gap between them was closed, and the brunette's lips were feverishly hot against his own. The kiss was slow…but Ken's energy reserves were spent, and it was enough—enough to still his anxieties…enough to make him realize how much he felt for the younger man.

( - - - - )

Meanwhile, Omi was on his 30th attempt to contact Youji. The man was obsolete. He had been, officially, disappeared for the better part of 24 hours, and Omi's worry was steadily dissipating into a blind-eyed fury. He had patience, yes…he would even go as far out on a wing as to say he was _exceptionally_ tolerant, even more so with the tall, lanky blonde.

But this went beyond pushing his buttons.

This ground on his sheer _nerves_. Omi had never been the type to enjoy beating around the bush, or ill-founded guilt-trips. Or being treated as though he were a child. Nevermind that he might as well _be_ one. That didn't mean any of the others had a right to toss that back in his face. Youji least of all.

Omi gritted his teeth.

He wasn't at all amused. And, irritation aside, he doubted he would have much lenience on the jade-eyed man when he saw him. This wasn't another random group outing they had chosen, this was _Ken_, it was one of their teammates in **critical** condition. Omi just couldn't fathom how Youji would knowingly shirk from that responsibility.

"Omi?" A reassuring hand at his shoulder.

The young boy jumped slightly, too involved in his own mental glowering to take note of the ivory-skinned man that had approached behind him. "How is he, Aya-kun?"

Omi turned as he posed the question, eyes narrowing curiously as he took in the pale blush that brightened Aya's face, and the curling quality of his lashes. The redhead bit his lower lip absently, seeming just the slightest bit dazed, and let his tongue wet his mouth once more before speaking. "He's awake…at least, he was."

"Oh!" the blue-eyed boy's lips stretched into a relieved smile, and he placed a pale hand just above his heart in gratitude. "Can we take him home, soon?"

"No…" As Aya spoke, the hints of anger from earlier drifted back into his words, "They're still keeping him in the psychiatric ward. He doesn't know. He just needs a change of clothes." He cast a pointed look at Omi, the closest he would ever look to being apologetic.

"Do you want me to drive back?"

"Can you? Take his motorcycle."

Omi seemed more than glad to comply with _that_ request.

( - - - - )

He couldn't remember having ever been that aroused before. Ken's words still rung in his ear, in that same hoarse, husky tone…its quality promising despite the circumstances, making Aya wish suddenly that he weren't the type to adhere to strictly to rules, and that the soccer-player be quick in his recovery.

_'Have you ever kissed a boy before, Aya?' _

No. He hadn't. Not ever. Yet…his lips had eased open with such ease and familiarity that anyone would have thought he had. The slightest shiver of anticipation ran through his already terse body, so that his foot began an incessant, anxious tap of the pristine tile of the waiting room.

He wondered if Ken had. Kissed a boy, that is. Or, man, better yet. Aya supposed he had. There had been Kase after all, hadn't there? And Ken was certainly of the affectionate type. When they had first met, Kase had stricken Aya as wielding some sort of strange possessiveness over the chocolate-haired youth, going as far as threatening Aya if the latter dared to approach Ken anymore than he absolutely had to.

Aya scoffed.

Damn bastard.

_'Have you ever made love to a boy before, Aya?'_

That question was a particular figment of his imagination, figment that—for the last five hours—had been coursing steadily through his mind and body, reminding him of his accursed humanity. He could almost imagine ken whispering those exact same words…body nearly spent, eyes closed in delightful rapture, fingertips curling about milky, delicate flesh.

Ran wasn't a virgin. As much as his mother had—during her lifetime—drilled into him the importance of chastity and abstinence until marriage, his hormones had won against his right judgement. He'd found, perhaps a bit disappointedly in his first encounter, that his mother had been right; sex at the wrong time, with the wrong person, and for the wrong reasons was nothing more than an embarrassing episode one couldn't wait to forget. He had been eighteen at the time—a late bloomer in comparison to his classmates, but still relatively young nonetheless.

His parents had died a few months later.

Strangely enough, any type of sexual encounters he might have liked to have engaged in had remained unfulfilled and ignored for the greater part of two years.

Which would explain why he was practically pulsating for the bedridden boy. He'd never been the type to partake in lustful affairs, either…but he found that Ken inspired the most illicit of desires within him. So much so, that he wasn't unsettled at the idea that he had never been in a gay relationship before…or been involved in one, period.

All his girlfriends had been too petulant for his liking…

Always doting on his looks, and if not, then certainly complaining over his affection for his sister.

He could scarcely see Ken as the whining, petulant girl who clung to his arm at parties and demanded he buy her roses on their anniversary. No, Ken was passionate, throbbing with an unopened Pandora's box of latent energy, energy just _aching_ to get out. And strangely enough, he wanted to be there when the box was opened—he wanted to be the recipient of such energies.

He wondered if Ken had much experience.

It was one thing to have had a sort of sexual encounter, and another entirely to have had many. Aya found he doubted Ken had been the type for casual sex. If he _had_ been through his share of trysts, then they had certainly been with the same person, and for lengths at a time.

He really couldn't imagine it being any other way.

But he was digressing, which wasn't something he was normally fond of, and it really wasn't something he had time to do, since he had to sign Ken out of the hospital in ten minutes. He had been there for about a week, the last two of which he had spent in the psychiatric ward.

Aya was finally torn completely from his thoughts when a petite nurse, in her forties, walked up reassuringly towards him and pushed a clipboard in his direction. "Your brother's finally going to be discharged," she smiled warmly, "he's been behaving very well these past few days."

The redhead forced himself to nod, amethyst eyes narrowed slightly despite himself, and took hold of the clipboard, scanning the contents of the typed paper quickly before signing it. He handed it back to the lady a bit roughly, yet with more consideration than he normally would have. She reminded him an awful lot of his mother…that warm gaze that seemed unperturbed by his rudeness and impassiveness. "Do I just carry him out?"

A slight shake of the head. "He has to sign out, too. You're welcome to help him dress, though. He's having a bit of trouble what with his hand, and he doesn't want any of the nurses—male or female—to touch him. I'm sure he wouldn't mind you." That last bit was added with a mischievous twinkle.

Startled, but not letting it otherwise show, the tall assassin made his way to the left wing of the hospital, counting the numbers of the rooms in his head, pausing at door 125 before shaking himself awake and remembering he was going in for Ken, not his sister. Door 125. It was a habit of his.

Hesitating just slightly, he raised his hand and rapped three times on the closed door. "Leave me the hell alone, already! Can't you people damn near listen to me?! I said I—"

The tirade paused when its owner realized who it was that had entered.

"Oh…it's you."

Aya quirked an eyebrow. What a nice reception. Somehow…in his mind, after what had happened, Aya had expected a warmer greeting. Another kiss, perhaps. A light flush alighted on his features.

Ken, meanwhile, had turned just in time to see the twinge of pink slowly dissipate from Aya's face. Standing as he was, slightly haunched over and attempting to pull on a loose, cotton overshirt, he was the most arousing juxtaposition of vulnerability and masculinity he had ever seen. Unwittingly, he took a step forward.

He didn't really know what he expected Ken's reaction to be—he had never really approached the brunette with such intentions before…but still…not knowing was partly what was making his feet move in the first place.

All it took were three, sure strides.

Ken's dark brown eyes were looking at him curiously, as if tacitly asking what he was doing—invading his personal space, nonetheless—and were waiting for the redhead to move. _Your gambit_, they seemed to say, _Your gambit—I'm tired of giving my own pieces up to contention. _

And, for the first time since he had joined Weiss, Fujimiya Ran ignored his more meticulous self, and put up a gambit.

Awkwardly, and perhaps with all the insecurity of a junior high student, he let his lips meets Ken's, having to bend forward slightly to meet the younger man's smaller frame. How Ken felt, he couldn't guess…his eyes were closed, and he was lost in the rhythmic beating of the chest pressed firmly against his own.

Kissing a man was world's apart from kissing a woman.

That first stolen kiss from Ken had been but a sample—a weak, but earnest response to Ken's own insecurity about his health.

But this one was different. There was no insecurity in the youth then; it had been Aya who had initiated the kiss…it had been he who had sought _him_ out. For once, Ken didn't feel as though he were second best in the man's eyes. And his kiss reflected that.

He had been ill before, debilitated by his blood loss. Now, although not entirely healed, his vigor had returned, and along with it, the strangest desire to show Fujimiya Aya that he was his equal—if not on the battlefield, than most certainly on the physical level.

Aya's fingertips were hot on his skin, quickly adjusting to the differences in his expected anatomy—to the hard, flat pectorals where he had expected mounds of warm flesh to be, and the strong, stubborn countenance of his biceps. He could hold onto Aya just as hard as the latter could him.

It was the strangest feeling. Knowing you were matched in strength…knowing that the certain degree of gentleness one had to respect with women was nonexistent…that Ken could take just as much as he could.

"And that's the beauty of it," Ken remarked, as if echoing the other's thoughts, trembling fingertips just barely gripping the fabric of Aya's shirt, forehead pressed to the man's collarbone. From there, he could feel the fast, powerful thudding of his heart, vibrating through the very planes of his sternum.

It would've been an awkward pose to be found in. Were they to be perceived as friends, or brothers, their sheer proximity would have indicated otherwise. Ken was standing, somewhat shakily, nestled against Aya's broad chest, and the latter was holding him upright with the slightest degree of difficulty. Men weren't, and had never been light.

Aya found it was a contrast he liked.

The brunette extricated himself from the amethyst-eyed man and turned his back to him. Trust at its finest. "Can you help me?"

He was referring to the shirt Ken had given up trying to shrug on and button, and Aya suddenly recalled what the nurse had mentioned to him moments earlier. _He doesn't want any of the nurses—male or female—to touch him. I'm sure he wouldn't mind you._

"Sit down."

The words were coupled with a slight psuh, and Ken found himself sitting on his only recently vacated hospital bed, Aya's wool-clad abdominals a few inches in front of his face. He glanced downwards despite himself, not wanting to violate the newfound trust he'd been giving by shamelessly scoping out the redhead's body. He concentrated on his bandaged hand instead, as much as he would have liked to do otherwise.

He was aware, soon after, that the bed creaked with the weight of another, and when he glanced up, Ken found that Aya was no longer standing before him, but had sat beside him and was leaning forward to collect his fallen shirt. Ken could see his muscles flexing through his turtleneck.

"Where're the others?"

Aya shrugged absently as he straightened out the fabric of the young man's shirt, not entirely sure _where_ they were. "Youji hasn't been here for the past two days…and Omi's looking for him, I suppose."

"Hmm?" Ken's attention seemed picquied and he tried ignored the strong calloused palms that alighted on his flesh as the redhead pulled on his shirt. "That's odd. I thought for sure my spewing up blood by the gallons would win me at _least_ a few days of undivided attention."

"You didn't just spew blood, Ken."  
"Oh?" the brunette turned curious eyes in his direction.

"You sliced you wrists, too."  
"Oh. That's what you meant."  
"What _else_ could I mean?"

Ken shrugged. Then, "Did they tell you already…about me?"

Dark red locks tossed to and fro. "They won't tell any of us. They wouldn't let us near you the first few nights."

"Why is that?"

It was Aya's turn to shrug. "You're done."

It took Ken a few seconds to figure out Aya wasn't talking about his life, but rather, his shirt. Glancing down at himself, he gave an attempt at his usual careless grin, and succeeded partway. The smile didn't fool Aya, though…it hadn't reached his eyes.

The two sat together in companionable silence for a few minutes—hours maybe—before Aya spoke. "Why'd you do it, Ken?"

"Do what?" The voice was even…sharp, maybe.  
"Try and kill yourself."  
"That again?"

When all Aya did was glare, the chocolate haired man turned away, bringing up his legs and tucking them into his chest, so that he could rest his cheek on his knees. "Haven't you ever tried to kill yourself before, Aya?"

The question was somber…not as inquisitive as it was bitter.

"No."

"Never?" Ken seemed amazed, and he smiled as he continued staring at the blank white wall before him. "That's amazing. I've tried to kill myself tons of times."

His confession was greeted with silence. "But something always pulls me back…something never lets me die."

He turned murky cocoa depths in his direction. "Wanna know what that is?"

Before he knew what he was doing, Aya had nodded, enraptured by the delightful melancholy of the young man. That seemed all the motivation Ken needed.

"You." And then, "Always you."

Before the redhead could open his mouth to protest that he had never done such a thing, Ken had turned those same, deadened eyes in his direction. They reminded him of the night they'd had the fight that had landed Ken in the hospital in the first place. They had that same hollow, sullen look. "Why do you keep calling me?"

There was more silence, but the youth didn't seem bothered by it. He'd been through his share of silences before. "Do you know what wing we're in?"

Aya shifted uneasily by the brunette's side at the question. "Neurological," he answered a bit uncomfortably.

Ken hadn't thought the other would answer him truthfully. A slight smile crossed his face, more genuine than the last. "I knew I was. It has that same smell."

"What smell?"  
"Tranquilizers. I can smell them."

Aya wrinkled his nose then, straining to capture a whiff of the substance Ken so achingly described. "You can't just smell it if you've never been exposed to it."

"And you have?"

The young assassin shrugged. "You've never tried to kill yourself before." Ken seemed to be strangely fascinated by Aya's assertion that he had never, in fact, planned suicide.

"Have you considered it, at least?"

Wanting to provide a truthful answer, the redhead searched his mind, trying to remember a time when he might've felt like dying—when the pain was so great, he had yearned to take his own life. And, oddly enough, he couldn't find any. Granted, he'd suffered when his family had been murdered, and Aya been deemed comatose, but rather than incite fear and sadness within him, it had angered him and spurred him towards vengeance. Any thoughts of suicide he might have had had been overshadowed by his violent need for revenge. If he were not around, than who would avenge his family?

He finally shook his head no to Ken's inquiry. "Well. I have. And I've been in the psychiatric ward before." The brunette paused as he seemed to be considering something. "Did they show you my scar?"

The one on his wrists? "No."

"Well then," Smiling, Ken unhooked the metal pin that kept the bandaged about his arm secure, and used his teeth to hold the end of the bandage as he began unraveling it. "You've never really looked at my arms before, have you?"

Aya's eyebrows furrowed. He couldn't rightly see where the conversation was going. "You wanted to open Pandora's Box, didn't you?"

Violet eyes were trained on the ever-diminishing cast of cloth that Ken was slowly doing away with. Finally, the cloth's windings were done, and the bandage fell noiselessly to the floor. In its wake it left exposed, purple flesh, where Ken's skin was healing, but was still bruised from the treatment, the scraggly cut, joined by thick, metallic stitches, gleaming with under the fluorescent lights.

Taking in the mutilated flesh was sickening to Aya, despite his nightly activities, and he felt the need to turn away for a few seconds as Ken continued speaking. "It's getting better, ne? Now look…"

Soft fingertips gently tugged on his eartails, beckoning him forward with a bit of a smile. He turned his face towards the brunette, and let his eyes travel to his left wrist. "What do you see?"

"A cut."  
"A healing cut?"  
"Yes."

Ken nodded, then pressed his hand even closer still to Aya's face. "Now look, right there, _under_ the healing cut. What do you see?"

Aya nearly choked on his breath. "You…Why—"

Dark eyes traced a thin, pale, but slightly upraised scar that line across the very beginnings of the brunette's wrist. It was old, healed…but looked as though it'd hurt to touch. Aya's eyes found Ken's own, a sick feeling beginning to twist in his stomach at finding the other looking at him intently, almost expectantly.

And a sad smile graced the brunette's cheeks. "I'm just the slightest bit abused."

* * *

_That last line totally kills me._  



	10. Intimidations

_**

* * *

**__**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos  
**__Chapter 10 - Intimidations  
_

* * *

Later that day found both Aya and Ken on the way back to their current hotel, where Omi—much to his chagrin—had been forced to stay and await the arrival of their missing Weiss member. Youji had, at that point, been missing for the better part of a day, and Omi was beyond himself with intermixed worry and anger. He was worried because it wasn't in Youji's nature to be so reckless; irresponsible, yes, reckless—rarely. He wasn't sure if something could have happened to the russet blonde to delay him such; usually he would warn the others before he disappeared, or called at the very least, but this time…this time there had been nothing. 

At the current moment he was sitting at the Inn's kitchen—which they'd ended up entirely renting, lest the owners and other resident become suspicious of their constant coming and goings—tapping his fingertips anxiously against the round mahogany table in typical teen-angst fashion. Just as he was going to rise and prepare something for them to eat, three dull raps on the door made him jolt awake. Grumbling something under his breath about 'Poe' and a 'damned raven' he sluggishly made his way to the living room, to which the front entrance was adjoined.

It was too early for Aya to be home with Ken—they weren't due for at least another twenty minutes. Maybe there had been little traffic. Shrugging, and smiling at the idea that Kenken be home at last, Omi pulled open the door.

And his smile promptly disappeared.

* * *

"It's so cold out here." 

Aya cast the shivering brunette an unsympathetic glance, having already reverted to his normal, impassive self, and shook his black leather jacket off, plopping it unceremoniously atop Ken's shoulders. The boy 'oomphed' at the sudden weight, and coupled it with an indignant, 'Oi! Aya!' before easing open the door to Aya's compact—and inevitably frozen—white porche.

He settled himself inside as comfortably as he could, clumsily trying to wrap Aya's overcoat about himself without jostling the healing wounds on his forearms. His cheeks, the redhead noted, were flushed from the wind, and his hair lay in tousled, messy waves over his head. Turning in time to see the violet gaze fixed on him, Ken offered the assassin a beaming smile coupled with a curious look. "Whatcha lookin' at?"

Aya didn't respond, continuing his sojourn over the other man's face instead, and watching him—consequently—squirm under his attentive stare. Content that the discomfort he had been feeling over the past few days had finally been transpassed over to the brunette, Aya made to turn on the ignition, when Ken's bandaged left hand settled over his, effectively pulling the key away. At his pointed look, and reminder that they were going to freeze otherwise, Ken gave a resigned nod, dropping his hand and turning his head to stare at the passing scenery, falling strangely silent.

Nearly twenty minutes later, feeling guilty over whatever Ken had tried to tell him, and once they were on somewhat of a deserted, less-trafficked road, he risked a glance at his companion. "What is it?"

Ken remained as he was, deaf to Aya's question, stare fixated on the condensing water droplets that were slowly beginning to cloud his view.

More prodding, "Ken?"

He really shouldn't be driving like this, common sense told him, amethyst eyes spending more time on his companion's immobile body than on the road, but suddenly making sure Ken was at ease was more important than anything he might have learned at Driver's Ed.

Seeming to realize the fact, doleful, dull brown eyes blinked at him, their deadened countenance so unlike they had earlier been. For a moment, the image of Ken as he'd been dismissed from the hospital—bright smile and flushed cheeks, lit up in his mind. His stomach constrained painfully, and he realized of how much importance the brunette's happiness was to him. His thoughts were interrupted by a broken, whispered voice, "That night…with Mastermind…I—"

_Mastermind. _

Aya's gaze snapped back toward the road, jaw stiffening, lips set into a fine line. "Aya—no…I…"

Ken sighed, biting his lower lip for lack of a better thing to do. He wanted to tell Aya what had happened—what had _really_ happened that night, but…he wouldn't listen. "It wasn't my fault," he finally muttered, tone soft and weary. "He just…he just—"

* * *

The German was tall. 

Very tall. Taller than Youji, Omi guessed.

He'd never actually estimated the telepath's height—having never fought him one to one—that was Youji's job.

A thin, predatory smile graced the redhead's feline features. "Call it good genes."

Omi took a step backwards, eyes narrowing at the none-too frequent attention he was receiving from Mastermind. Having to worry more frequently about being slammed telekinetically into a concrete wall than at whether or not his enemy was busy perusing through his mind, Omi found his newfound opponent somewhat unnerving. Fact which he was sure the redhead knew, and delighted in.

"You flatter me, kitten, but—" Schulidich pushed past him, looking inside the small inn apartment curiously, "I'm not here for you."

A small quirk in an otherwise tense brow.

"Where is he?"

"Who?" _Youji?_

"Hmm…?" Schulidich turned bemusedly at the thought he had barely caught. Eyes focused on the small blonde, he cocked his head to the side. "Balinese has gone missing?"

Omi wasn't sure how to respond to that. Frowning to himself and trying to clear his mind from accompanying images of Youji's disappearance, the youngest of Weiss made a quick motion to his pocket which—given Schulidich's speed, proved fruitless. With three strides—which Omi had trouble accurately following—the redhead had him pinned against the table, back aching incredibly at having the edge of the wood table jutting out against his vertebrae "Ne, kitten…I should have warned you about that. I have no issues with bashing your brains out against a stone wall, either."

_Damn it, Youji. You could have told me fighting Mastermind was a bit hard—_

"Not hard. He doesn't find it hard."

_especially since he knows exactly what you're planning to do._

Struggling, and not having picked up the almost familiar manner with which the telepath spoke of the tall russet blonde, Omi tried to somehow push the stronger, taller, and altogether more powerful man off him. "What do you want?"

The tone was deadly. Acidic, given the youth's otherwise congenial disposition. Schulidich raised an eyebrow in mock offense, and let it fall just as fast. He didn't have much time. Crawford was sure to get a vision of his visit. "I need something Weiss has."

"And what makes you think we'll give it to you?"

"_You _will. There's no one else here."

"I would never give you anything!"

The youth struggled once more, bringing up his knees to push off the older man, and succeeding partly. "Relay a message for Balinese, will you?"

Schulidich backed off, making his way towards the front door without a glance back. _"Make sure he gives me back what he took."_

Omi blinked a few times, still staring at the door once the German had left, hand making its way to his heart, resting over the area so that he could feel its erratic feat. Balinese…? What had Youji taken of Schulidich? Puzzled and unsteady, he stumbled unsteadily towards the couch at the opposite end of the room, dropping onto it wearily once he reached it. "Youji…what have you done?"

* * *

Meanwhile, a young women with dark ringlets the color of wine was stalking through an otherwise emptied office, pacing to and from a metal cabinet, pausing every time without reaching it. She seemed to be considering her options, balancing the eventual prospects of her decisions, against the overall morality of her nature. She had to look out for those she cared for, but a job should not have to interfere with her emotions. That was what she had been taught. 

Sighing and looking upwards for some type of divine intercession, she halted in her pacing, turned on her foot, and walked determinately toward the cabinet. _Now, then…_

Her first efforts to open it yielded her suspicions true; it was under lock and key. However, she hadn't been expecting any less, and had already more or less an idea of how to open it. Milky fingertips dropping into her right pocket, she pulled out a small pin that seemed more suited for holding together a child's diaper, than for performing any type of lock-picking. Regardless, it hadn't been the first time she had done such a thing—she had been a master at it when she was younger—and, like the saying, something that was well-learned wasn't easily forgotten.

Letting loose an excited rush of inheld-breath when the cabinet slid open, the woman—high heels and all—set on the task of finding that file.

_Hidaka, Ken. Codename: Siberian._

She had to skim around in a few different places to finally find it, not sure if Kritiker would really risk filing its agents by name, or if it'd be too hard to find him by codename. She realized, several minutes later, that the files were arranged in a coded fashion—as should have been expected from the great Kritiker—and a black barcode ran the entire length of the files. She decided, beginning to tap the heel of her foot impatiently from habit, that the only way she'd find him was if she searched every document and hoped there'd be a picture of the youthful brunette grinning happily at her.

It was worth a try.

And she had better get to it soon, she didn't really have much time.

She began, methodic by nature, at the very top of the cabinet, standing on tiptoe despite her heels, and used long fingernails to aid in pushing away the unwanted files. She was surprised, actually, when she found Bombay's file fairly early on. So that was it…

They were archived by time—by the amount of time they had spent under Kritiker.

Biting her lips and trying to remember exactly when Siberian had signed up for membership in the Weiss, she found that she couldn't quite recall when or why he had joined. The circumstances of his recruital were foggy in her mind; as though she couldn't quite differentiate between what she remembered and what she had been told, and what she had suspected and found out on her own. Manx had investigated a lot of things earlier on in her Kritiker career…though most of them had been on the actual group leaders of Kritiker. The underground vigilante setup hadn't always been controlled by Persia; and it hadn't been opposed to using backhanded means to attain the forced recruit of agents they deemed necessary to achieve certain means.

She had paused over a particular file in her reminisce, and as she looked downwards once more, she was intrigued by the relative thickness of the file in comparison to the rest. Even Omi—who had been with the company from a decidedly young age—had a thin file in contrast. Not having quite the right mind to pass it, but doubting it was Ken's, Manx stooped down a bit lower and pulled the file slightly out of its position. And there it was, in typical typewriter font:

Hidaka, Ken. Weiss. Siberian.

Manx had to wonder why on _Earth_ Kritiker would risk placing the files of their most valued assassin group in an everyday cabinet in the middle of an office that was accessible to all. Most especially if they were as thick as the brunette's file. She could only imagine the type of information it would hold…

Frowning more to herself than at the file, she plucked it from its location and, walking towards Persia's desk, sat down and spread it open before her. Three lines into the document, her eyes had already hit a snag. _That_ couldn't be true…

She was startled from the document when an alarm rung out, the lights in the room falling dead to be replaced minutes later with the red emergency ones. The bell wasn't one that would signal an intruder—but rather, one that suggested a fire. She looked around about herself, unsure of what was going on, wondering what had happened to cause a fire, when she heard the unmistakable sound of machine guns slicing through drywall and flesh.

Unsure of what else to do, she pulled out her cell-phone—simultaneously dropping Ken's file—and crawled into a secret passageway that led outside, dialing Abyssinian's number first. If there was someone who'd pick up, it was him.

* * *

"Hello?" The voice was impatient, annoyed. 

Ken turned away slightly to give Aya his privacy, chocolate gaze falling to study the crystals beginning to aggregate at the base of the car's window. Aya had swerved to the right a few seconds ago, uncharacteristically ill at ease by Ken's apparent attempt to clear up the situation.

"Manx? Where are you?"

Ken turned back towards the other young man, brow crinkled just the slightest bit as he heard—even from his position—the loud echoes of an alarm ringing from wherever Manx was. And…was that…gunfire?

He'd been exposed to that sound so long, that it was near unmistakable to him. Wrenching the phone from the redhead's grasp with more strength that he knew he had, Ken brought the small cellular to his ear and called out to Manx, "Manx? Where are you!"

The brunette's features hardened as the women gave out the information of her current location, and—for a split second—Aya was too startled to act. His eyes lingered on Ken's face, taking in the alert eyes, the almost hot-headed demeanor…the almost reckless way in which he'd pulled away his phone.

He was still Ken. Bandaged up as he was, he was still Ken.

_I'm just the slightest bit abused…_

"She's at the restaurant a few blocks from the police headquarters," Ken glanced at his watch, "That's roughly a 45 minute ride from here to there—and that's if we push the speed limit."

"You're not going anywhere."

"Aya, I'm fine—start the car."

The redhead remained motionless, hands slack and lifeless against his thighs. "Aya? Manx is in trouble…she says she thinks there's an attack. It could be Schwarz—Mastermind."

_Mastermind._

"You're sick."

"Dammit, Aya!" Ken's cheeks burned in anger, "I'm _not_ sick! I've never _been_ sick—it's just the way I am, all right!"

"You're…sick."

Amethyst eyes were focused almost hazily on his—looking past him, through him…anywhere but _at _him. Mocha-hued brows knit together once more. "Ne…Aya—c'mon, Manx—"

The redhead drew in a labored breath, looking momentarily disoriented, "Sick…"

Milky pale hands reached out to him, grabbing him by the wrists, seeming utterly unaware of the wince that riddled his features, and the young man gripped him hard. "Aya…what's—"

"I know what you have."

In an instant, the boy's eyes widened and fell closed. "Oh…" a small smile graced his features, "How much do you know, exactly?"

The redhead's fingertips where still tight on his forearm. "Enough."

Ken shrugged a little then, wishing Aya would let go. "Manx is waiting."

He missed the warmth of Aya's fingertips on his wrist.

And he was colder than he ever remembered being.

* * *

_I'm really sorry about the melodrama. I really, really hope you can all forgive me. That said, this goes out to Seph Lorraine, who wrote a ficcy that made me go UPDATE!! _

* * *


	11. Confrontations

_**

* * *

**_

_**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos**  
__Chapter 11—Confrontations_

* * *

The doorbell was ringing. And it was ringing urgently. Frowning, and hesitant after his encounter with Mastermind, Omi made his way to the door, this time standing on tiptoe to look through the circular window at the very top. A messy head of russet blonde entered his frame of vision.

Youji.

He opened the door despite himself, having been too harried with Ken's situation to give much thought to how exactly he'd receive the older man when he reappeared, and realized—once blue eyes locked on jade—that he couldn't quite smile.

The older man was shifting his weight anxiously, the action uncharacteristic, and searched out Omi's eyes with such earnest, that the youth couldn't help but look back. "Ken's coming back today. Aya went to get him."

And he had turned around—the door left open—to make his way up to his room. He couldn't stand to look Youji in the eye. In his mind, he couldn't quite fathom how he could have possibly stayed away even knowing of the brunette's hospitalization. To top it off, Schulidich's visit had done very little to assuage his suspicious, the way in which the redhead had referred to Youji being entirely too familiar for his liking.

Omi wasn't stupid.

"Ne—Chibi!" the voice was urgent; maybe the slightest bit desperate. Omi was already halfway up the staircase.

"That's not my name."

A pause, and then, "Omi…I—"

"I suggest you don't concern yourself so much with me, and work on what you're going to be telling Aya. Or Ken. Who attempted suicide."

"Wha—" Youji trailed off as the small blonde turned towards him, cobalt gaze incriminating, looking as though he were struggling to keep his composure.

"Yeah, Youji—_suicide_…and all this while you were too busy screwing Mastermind to take note of it!"

Jade eyes widened and pink lips slackened, "What…? I—"

The young boy couldn't hold it in anymore, wiping at his eyes he glared at the other man for all he was worth, "I hope he was a gloriously good fuck, because Ken might die and you've already forfeited time with him."

"Omi don't say that—" Youji's eyes were pained.

A bit of a bitter smile, "What? That Ken's gonna die? Because he might, Youji…or the other thing—your little fuck with Mastermind?"

"Don't say it like that—it wasn't—"

"_How_ do you want me to say it, then!" the young man brushed hot, angry tears from his cheeks, "how _else_ can I say it!"

"You're—you're not like this Omi…"

"You don't _know_ me—you don't know _how_ I am—"

"Yes, I do!" Youji grabbed onto the youth by the biceps, frantically searching out his gaze, "You're a good kid…I know that—"

"No! No—" Omi pulled himself away, "I'm _not_ a kid—I'm _not_ a kid…can't you _see_ that! **Why** do you have to constantly think of me as a little kid who doesn't know anything about the world!"

"Because you _don't—"_

"_Yes_, I do!"

Omi moved away, shaking his head at Youji, his expression entirely broken, "Yes I _do_…I know you picked Mastermind over us…."

"Chibi—I…it wasn't like that…"

The young blonde craned his head to the side, a sad smile touching his lips, the forlorn sigh that escaped him entirely descriptive of his sentiments. "I'm not a kid, Youji. I know what _sex_ is."

"Omi…that's not _enough_—you're not like Mastermind, or Schwarz or the rest of Weiss…"

"I _am_ Weiss. I was _Weiss_ before any of you were Weiss. I _killed_ before you ever considered the lifestyle. I'm not a kid anymore than you want me to be…I just…I don't understand."

"You're young—a lot of this won't make sense until you're older—"

"Why? _Why _are you so fixated on my age! I'm only five years younger than you are!"

"A lot can happen to a person in five years—"

"And a lot can happen to them in the years _before_ they're twenty—I'm not the ideal person you paint me to be…_why_ do you have to keep thinking that I am!"

"Because you _are_!"

"I _kill_ people, Youji. I do it. Whenever I'm assigned to it. I get _paid_ for it—I'm not a child…a child _doesn't_ kill."

"It's because you were _forced_ to do it—"

"No, I _wasn't_. Maybe the first few times…but not after four years Youji—you can never be forced into doing something for so long."

Omi opened his mouth to say more, when the telephone began to ring. They both cast it an uncertain look, not sure whether to answer it, or let it ring, lest it be something important. Youji reacted first, and he chose to ignore it, putting out his hand over it when Omi made to answer it. "Obviously, you don't only limit ignoring phone calls to when you're screwing the enemy."

"Omi—don't _say_ that."

"Say _what_!" he was exasperated, cheeks red with tears and body shaking with displaced anger. "Say the truth? I don't _care_ if that was what you did, Youji. I know you. I've _always_ known you. I'm not stupid—and even if you _insist_ on labeling me as a child, even someone as unsuspecting as that would have long been aware of your comings and goings. You bring home men every night. Women on the weekends. You pass out drunk on the couch—you _reek_ of sex. Am I supposed to be _scandalized_ now because this time it was Mastermind? Because I'm not. If anything, I'm disappointed I didn't see it coming _earlier._"

"Why are you doing this, Omi…why _now?_"

"Because this _isn't_ about Mastermind! I don't give a _damn_ about Mastermind—"

"Don't talk like that!"

"How? How am I talking? Am I not allowed to curse now?"

"You…you don't curse—"

"Yes, I do!" the youth pulled at his hair, blue eyes squeezing shut as he moved away from the blonde, "Why…._Why_ are you allowed to do things I can't?"

"What are you—"

"You drink. You smoke. You curse. You go out and have sex with _whoever_ you want—you don't _care_ about anyone."

"That's not true—"

"Yes, it is! You were with him, instead of being with Ken…instead of being with _me._"

"Omi, I—" the tall man took a step forward, wincing when the other moved further away, hiccupping at the onslaught of tears.

"Ken was sick, Youji—_sick._ And Aya was with him the entire time. And I was here…all alone—worried about _you_, worried about Ken. And there was no one _here_ to comfort _me._ Why is it always about _you_! Why did you leave, Youji-kun…_why_?"

"I needed to get out of here—I…"

Omi wiped at his eyes, sniffling despite himself, wishing for all the world that he could keep the tears from coming—he hated that he was crying in front of him. "Why didn't you tell me—I thought…I…"

"_You_ were the problem."

The young boy recoiled at the revelation, rebuttal dying in his throat, along with the hope for a reconciliation of sorts. He glanced downwards at his feet, gaze blurry and unfocused, suddenly feeling ridiculous in his shorts and t-shirt…his cap seeming unfitting for who he was. And…it made sense in his mind, Youji's association of 'who he was' versus 'who he seemed to be.' Nodding, and wishing he could just disappear, he took a few steps back, humiliated at the tears that streamed down his face, and took a few unsteady breaths. "Mastermind left a message for you," the young man paused, remembering the hurt he'd felt when he'd seen the tall, lithe, and sensual redhead at the door, "he wants what you took."

With that, he was gone.

* * *

"Bait." 

A pair of pale ice blue eyes turned at the assertion, taking in the frame of a thin blonde young man, walking absently in thought. "You think so?" he tossed two cards into a growing stack. "He seems a bit small to me."

"That's how the boss likes them. Fresh meat."

The second youth, who had dark, curling locks, frowned a bit at the analogy. "I doubt he'd come along with us."

"I think he might. He looks a little upset."

"Should we tag him? The club's not too far off from here, and maybe we can keep him occupied for a while…and then…figure out if he's worth it."

* * *

"Youji? I thought you were M.I.A." 

The tall russet blonde was surprised at the greeting he received, by Ken, no less. He sounded weak, granted, but a lot livelier than what he had expected, given Omi's comment on his attempted suicide. "Ne…I need to talk to Omi, put him on the line before Aya has an aneurysm."

"He's not here." His voice was tight.

"He's not there." Ken was transferring the message to Aya, who was pushing the speed limit as best he could, "but Youji's there. Should I tell—"

The redhead pulled the phone away from him, managing to keep an eye on the road, glare, and drive with one hand while palming the small device. "Youji—get the stuff together. Kritiker headquarters is under attack. We'll be there in ten."

Aya could almost sense the other's confusion. "We're _protecting_ them now?"

He growled.

"All right, all right—your car?"

"Roger."

* * *

"Hey." 

Omi turned slightly, too weary to pay much attention to his surroundings, and took in the two boys that had come up to him. They seemed to be roughly his age, though both were taller than he was. "Yeah?" He wasn't in the mood to be polite.

"Where ya going? You seem kinda lost—"

"Lost…?" Omi looked about him, realizing that he had gone a little farther than he'd intended on his walk, but he wasn't lost. He knew how to get back, and he knew how to wade through the city if he continued forward. It was part of being in Weiss. Since he was largely in charge of planning, he saw more blueprints of the city than he would have liked. "I'm not lost."

"Oh…" the smaller of the two boys—who had strawberry blonde hair—frowned, seeming somewhat disappointed, and looked towards his friend, a tall raven-haired young man.

"Well then, mind hanging out with us a bit? We're…bored."

_Bored?_

Omi shrugged a little, checked his watch, and nodded. "Actually…if it's not much trouble…I had wanted to check out that club that's near here."

The two boys brightened. "The Lime? Yeah, sure. It's a fun place to be. By the way, I'm Hisa—" the dark haired boy smiled, then pointed to the strawberry blonde, "and that's Ichi."

Omi smiled, "Omi."

"You've got a piercing—where'd ya get it?"

At the question, Omi fingered his ear lobe absently, twirling the loop out of habit. "I got it when I was thirteen. At some store that's closed down."

"I haven't seen you around," it was Hisa, "do you live near here?"

Omi shrugged a little, "A couple of blocks up from the bakery. Ms. Momoe's place. Koneko no Sumu Ie."

Omi looked up to see if the boy had an inkling of the place he was talking about, and was a bit disconcerted when the young man looked straight back at him, ice blue eyes strangely reminiscent of a certain violet pair. Once he'd assured himself that the blonde had only good intentions, however, his lips tugged upwards in an honest smile, and his eyes twinkled a deeper hue. "We live two blocks from The Lime. Cheap housing."

The young assassin nodded, slowly piecing together a profile of the two. "Are you brothers, or friends?"

"Friends, who happen to act like brothers." That was Ichi. He seemed to be the more responsive of the two; Hisa seemed to be making a genuine effort to be sociable. "We live together and everything."

"Ah…" _Fear the one who always volunteers information._

If there was one thing he had learned as a Weiss, it was to never volunteer information—especially not to strangers.

Hisa, if anything, seem to take notice of his reluctance to say much else, and led the way in relative silence, until he asked if Omi still went to school. When the latter nodded, the black-haired youth had smiled and said he wished he'd had the chance.

And…despite it all, there was something in him that reminded him obstinately of the resident sex-god of Weiss.

* * *

"Did Manx say anything else?" Youji shifted a bit to look out the window, the blurring scenery moving too fast for him to discern much. 

"No…just that there were certain documents on the twelfth floor that were better off either destroyed, or in our hands."

"And this was how long ago? Maybe the infiltrators have already gotten in—"

"In which case it's our job to stop them," Aya paused a little, debating whether to pass a red light, or obey its warning. He chose to ignore it. "There's the security personnel and some random agents to hold them off for a while—it's been fifteen minutes…what with dropping Ken off and picking you up."

There had been no question as to where he had been.

"And what of Persia?" the blonde was getting antsy. It wasn't often they got called on sudden assignments; usually they had two to three weeks to plan in advance. They didn't even know the floor plans of the Police Headquarters that well, either. Usually Omi was there for that.

"No news. Manx hasn't been able to get in touch with him. Chances are he's in some secret and uninterruptible—for whatever reason—meeting. Where's Omi?"

"I don't know."

"We could have used him on this mission. We're two men short."

"I'll take the west wing—I know it better…You take the right, and we'll meet up at the roof?"

Aya shook his head no. "At the twelfth floor. I want to make sure we clear that out. Why _she_ didn't take care of that, I don't know," his hands tightened on the steering wheel and a horn blared insolently at them as they passed a stop.

"Who…do you think it is?"

Another shrug. "I have no idea. My best guess is that someone got wind of Kritiker...either that or it's a personal issue against the Police Chief—a.k.a. Persia."

"Damn it…why _now_ of all times…?"

* * *

"You don't drink?" Ichi. He took a large gulp of _something_ before scanning the club. 

"No…not usually…" the small blonde palmed his cool, fizzing drink—which Hisa had suggested as mild—a bit hesitantly, taking a small sip. He was unused to the atmosphere, to the pulsating music that blared incessantly, and the blinking lights that attacked him from every side.

He had to control the urge to close his eyes to keep the lights from giving him a seizure every so often.

Hisa gave him that warm, disarming smile of his and whispered conspiratorily into his ear, "Ichi likes the blue ice…it's his favorite—because of the color. He says it matches my eyes."

Ignoring the tickling that the boy's voice sent down his spine, Omi turned absently towards Ichi, standing on tiptoe to peak into his glass, smiling a bit on his return. "It does. Pale, pale, blue. I didn't know anyone with blue eyes before."

Hisa cocked his head curiously to the right, sipping his own drink with a lazy grace, before tapping the youth's nose with a bemused expression. "You have blue eyes."

Omi felt his cheeks twinge slightly, thankful for the darkness of the place, and shrugged. "It's not the same as _knowing_ someone."

The young man seemed to agree, nodding as he polished off his drink, running tan fingers through his messy, curly hair. "You don't dance?"

"Dance…?" Omi looked hesitantly about him, taking in the sweaty writhing bodies moving about—some decently following the beat, others pressed into each other, lips locked and limbs obscenely wrapped about torsos. "I don't think…I—"

"Not like _that_…if you don't want to."

There was a hint of a challenge in that voice…and of flirtation, too.

"C'mon. I'll teach you if you don't know how to—which I doubt," with those words, Hisa had grabbed onto his wrist, his touch cool and silky, and pulled him toward the center of the dancing crowd. The young blonde paled once he'd realized Hisa had led them smack dab into the center of the mob, as opposed to the quiet corner he would have picked.

"Ne…chibi—" Hisa smiled a little at the nickname he'd picked...it suited the small blonde. He's expected the youth to look up with a bit of an accusatory glance—perhaps with some reproach—but the young man lifted dark cobalt eyes, waiting for the rest of the sentence. "Guess you're used to it then, being called chibi?"

"It's not terribly original, you know…I have…a—friend…who calls me that."

"Oh…a friend," He sounded almost disappointed. Hisa had taken note of the way his manner had changed. He was awfully observative. His skills of scrutiny would match those of Aya, the blonde guessed.

"No, no—not like _that_…just, a friend…if that. We work together."

"Ah," Hisa nodded, that beautiful smile coming to his lips once more, "So I'm not in any real danger of anyone that isn't me whisking you off your feet, am I?"

Cobalt blue eyes widened in surprise.

"What?" pale eyes twinkled mischievously, "you said it yourself."

"I…I guess."

"Now dance…" with those words, Hisa pulled him close, feeling the youth's insecurity dissipate into spontaneity, until the two were just a part of the crowd, laughing as they moved to the beat of the music.

* * *

"Who's the kid?" 

Ichi jumped up, slightly startled, but relaxed once he saw who it was. "Friend of Hisa's." They were having second thoughts about their original intentions…Omi seemed too kind a person to try and betray.

"Friend?" a feral grin licked purple lips.

"Just a friend, yeah," Ichi looked back to the dancing pair with a bit of a frown, "he's really nice."

"Boss know?"

"As of now…no."

"Ah…you gonna tell him, or should I?"

"Well…" Ichi paused a little, looking away from the scene to meet dark, opal eyes. "It's Hisa's find, so I figure it's up to him."

* * *

"So…half an hour?" the voice was a whisper. 

"Half an hour."

Without Omi or Ken to regulate communications, the two Weiss were left to their own devices as to how to accurately meet up once they were in the building. As uncomfortable as they were with the matter, it seemed they'd be limited to their watches as their only real technological ally. They had synchronized to the second a few minutes ago, and were readying to enter the building, when the sound of gunshot somewhere to their left rang out. Aya stiffened, then relaxed minutely, "They haven't gotten in. Not far, at least. Thirty minutes, Balinese."

At Youji's nod, Aya disappeared to an adjoining fence of shrubbery, hopping deftly over it and crawling to a window that was a few metres from the floor. Then, the muscles of his calves straining slightly, he hoisted himself inside.

* * *

The climb to the twelfth floor was more difficult than either of them had anticipated, made more difficult by the smoke that hung low in the hallways, and burned at their eyes. A fire had broke out moments earlier, precipitated, no doubt, by the constant gunfire that erupted in each and every direction. It didn't make it any easier to distinguish between friend and foe, either. 

Aya had taken the right wing of the building, the section dealing primarily with drug investigations, and couldn't help the small smirk that graced his features at what the officers there were going to do once all the evidence they had gathered against their dealers went up in smoke.

After he bypassed initial security—which he had a hard time getting past, since he wasn't particular to causing casualties to Perisa's men—the trek upwards was a lot simpler than he would have imagined. Those that had infiltrated the place were a small, well-armed bunch, but relatively easy to bypass if one took to the fire-escape staircases and the less-used offices.

By the time he has reached the twelfth floor, a good fifteen minutes had transpired, and he was now faced with the task of discerning exactly _where_ the office was. Though they were Persia's elite team, they had never really confronted the man personally—save for that one time in which Aya'd been distressed over his sister—and even then, it had been outside the building. He wished madly that Omi had not disappeared; he had just as much amount of knowledge of the building as did Manx…if not _more_.

Lost in his reverie as he was, he was unaware of the man who lingered near the shadows, positioning himself for an ambush, rather than a headlong attack. Unable to perceive whether the man was enemy or not, Aya was slow in pulling out his sword, and found himself plastered on the floor—rather uncomfortably—against a tall, hard body. He struggled despite the dull ache in his ribs, a bit surprised he couldn't buck the man off as easily as he would have guessed, and put up both hands to block what would have been a bludgeon to the head.

The man's outfit was dark—navy if not black—and Aya's violet gaze traveled over the man's chest at the same time that he grappled with him. He was looking for the Police Headquarter's damned insignia, and the redheaded man had a feeling Persia was going to be one man short if he didn't find it soon.

He finally managed to catch the man's wrists, wincing slightly as he endeavored to bend them backwards, letting his eyebrows relax only when he heard a sickening pop resound through the darkness.

The emergency lights had dimmed sometime before, to the point of being near useless.

At the man's strangled cry, Aya further scuffled, a well-placed hit to the man's carotid rendering him unconscious for an indeterminate amount of time.

His breath quicker than he would have liked, and palms slick with sweat, Aya made his way towards the door from which he guessed the man had emerged, and peered curiously inward, hand tightening around the hilt of his katana.

His silent inquiry proved no inhabitants to be in the room, and he relaxed his grip and looked around. The President's office. A further look to the right found Manx's red blazer laying idly on the arm of a plush, black leather couch. Glancing at his watch once more, and finding it to be ten minutes short of their agreed rendezvous time, the redhead couldn't help but shift his weight anxiously from left to right—not a common habit of his—and let out a bit of a frustrated sigh. Youji should have been there by now. His knowledge of the west wing was ridiculously better than his—oft spending his time there, flirting with whatever woman's presence he was graced with—and, unless he had faced some type of difficulty, the man should have—through logic alone—arrived some five minutes before him.

Regardless, Aya moved towards the cabinet Manx had indicated as imported and pulled open its last drawer. Its handles were warm. Brow wrinkling slightly, the redhead dipped lower, nearly kneeling, and pressed his palms to the floor. Fingers splayed as they were, he could feel heat diffusing upwards through them. Further inspection as he pressed his thumb against the bottom edge of the cabinet only reinstated his suspicions, forcing him to retract his hand quickly, burned digit seeming dark in the red light.

The floor downstairs was burning—and quickly at that—and if he and Youji hoped to be able to use the passage Manx had indicated for their escape, the blonde would have to make it up there soon. Aya hoped he hadn't run into any unnecessary trouble, as that would mean he'd have to go and fetch him, and then it'd prove near impossible to rescue the documents—much less ascertain their contents.

He was halfway back up, when the glint of _something_ caught his attention on Persia's desk. Curiosity getting the best of him, as it often times seemed to do, he approached, more than a little surprised to see the face of a certain, nonsmiling brunette paperclipped to the front of a file.

_Hidaka Ken. Weiss. Siberian._

Frown marring his lips, the tall assassin fingered the edges of the file, resisting the urge to reach out and stroke the image of the broken man he'd left behind not a few hours ago, and lifted it up. It was heavy. For a moment, he looked back towards the cabinet, wondering exactly how much information Manx wanted him to siphon from the building. He supposed the silver cabinethoused relevant information regarding more than one Kritiker agent, and he wondered whether Persia was intent on their saving all of it, _some_ of it, or letting it all be destroyed. The lattermost seemed the most obvious option…but if it had been, Aya doubted Manx would have called them to it.

Unless Persia didn't know.

He cast another look at the document. It didn't matter if all the folders were destroyed in the blaze—the identities of the agents would be protected by the eradicated information, regardless…but there was something Manx hadn't wanted destroyed…something she had wanted him, or _Weiss_ to see.

"Aya?"

The redhead spun around despite himself, feeling his breath catch in his throat at his inattentiveness, taking in the site of a slightly battered Youji, clutching his arm and wriggling around the fingers of his left hand experimentally. "I think some bastard pulled my muscle when he ran into me," his words sobered once he realized what his leader was holding, "Did ya find it?"

Aya nodded, red locks seeming near black in the suffusing light, and used his head to indicate the cabinet. "Find yours. And Omi's. And mine. I don't know how they're categorized, but check by Weiss."

The blonde nodded, moving quickly to do as Aya asked, glowering at the lack of light. "Can't we just take the whole damn thing?"

Scarlet locks shook to and fro. "No. I have a feeling no one's supposed to know we're even here—let alone that we salvaged the files."

"What about Schwarz?"

"What about them?"

Youji pulled out a yellowing folder, frayed at the edges, and pointed to the black text emblazed across its front. "Schwarz."

The redhead seemed startled by his comrade's discovery, enough that he dropped Ken's file, and looked about him quickly. "Whatever's relevant. Schwarz, yes."

Nodding, Youji skimmed through the files easily enough, finding both Omi's and his, but had trouble finding the redhead's. "Did you ever take a picture for them?"

"No." that was going to make things that much harder.

"When did you join?"

Aya looked thoughtful. "2 years ago…?"

The lithe man looked upwards at the almost uncertain statement, taking in the sight of his rare partner standing a few feet to his right, perusing some document or other in the file he currently held in his hands. "Who's is that?"

He'd be damned if he'd never been curious.

"Ken's."

He felt a wave of guilt wash over him, remembering what Omi had said earlier. Still keeping his gaze trained on the files before him, he jerked his head towards the redhead. "Anything?"

"They knew about his sickness."

"Wha?" the blonde was startled enough that he stopped his skimming, jade eyes coming to rest bewilderedly on amethyst.

Abyssinian was clutching a particular piece of paper within his palm, knuckles white at the exertion. "And they've been using it against him."

* * *

_Next chappie, next chappie!_


	12. Revelations

**_

* * *

_**

**_In Fear Of  
__The Weaver Atropos_**  
_Chapter 12--Revelations_

* * *

All the while, Ken sat, anger having faded a while ago, quietly contemplating the television. It was off, and he had no idea how on god's green earth he was expected to turn it on. Every 26 seconds, much to his pleasure, a soccer match was being shown and broadcast in some corner of the world. 

Still, restless at the absence of the elder half of Weiss, and wondering where Omi had gone off to, Ken contented himself with peering around the tv set, and giving a few experimental tugs at random wires.

And the entire house fell dark at his proddings. "Oops."

And our dear Kenken strikes again.

* * *

"Hisa?" 

The brunette stirred slightly at the call, refocusing his attention on the small blonde before him. "Yeah…?"

The young boy shifted, almost uncomfortably, before bright blue eyes blinked upwards at him. "Can we go someplace else? It's too noisy."

Hisa seemed startled initially, unsure of what Omi was proposing, exactly, and ruffled the blonde's bangs stiffly. "Where exactly?"

Another fidget. "Anywhere."

"Let me go get Ichi—"

"No—"

Omi's fingertips darted forward and tangled about tanner, stronger ones. A blush heated his cheeks. "Can it just be you and me?"

Pale blue eyes widened yet another fraction. "Sure."

Omi looked away and nodded, taking in a deep breath. "Sure, okay."

* * *

Aya was incredibly tight-lipped. After Youji had somehow managed to tear Ken's document from his fingertips, and damn near dragged the man out the building, they were back at the car, and the blonde was wondering if he should let his comrade drive in such a condition. "Keys…?" 

A glare and a grunt later, a keyring was placed in his hands, and the redhead grudgingly moved towards the passenger side, opening the door and settling himself in a bit vengefully. Jade eyes widened almost imperceptibly, surprised at the weight that had been placed in his palm. Aya had never, to that day, let him borrow his car; hell, the temperamental man got suspicious if Youji so much as _looked_ at his precious automobile. And here he was, letting him _drive _it?

Atlas be crushed and let pigs fly.

"What is it, exactly?"

Aya remained silent at the blonde's question, still scanning some of the other documents he'd found in the brunette's file. "Stats, data, medical record. History. Kase, Kase, Kase."

There was an entire chunk of the folder dedicated entirely to the deceased leader of Creepers. Somehow, and for whatever reason, the redhead couldn't help the anger that bubbled within him, and the even stranger sensation that lodged in the pit of his belly. "Might as well rename the damned thing 'Kase.'"

A pale russet brow rose curiously as Youji took in the sight of his flustering comrade, but he made a point of keeping his mouth shut. He was aware of the vengeance with which the katana-wielding assassin began flipping through a large portion of the files, all having something or other to do with the raven-haired man, until—suddenly, and for no given reason—he paused. "…Fujimiya Ran?"

"Hmm?"

At the rate they were going, his inattentiveness was going to get them both in a car accident.

"We're in Ken's file."

"We, as in, Weiss, or we as in—_you._"

A glare. "Me."

The blonde shrugged. "Maybe you did something? The both of you are partners, after all."

"That's not the context that it's in."

"Well, what _is_ the context?"

The usually tacit man paused, about to respond, before casting Youji an odd look. Something seemed to dawn on him. "And where the hell have you been all this time, anyway?"

* * *

"I've never done anything like this." 

Hisa cast the blonde at his side a bit of a smile, taking in the way the young man adjusted to his surroundings, azure eyes blinking curiously—albeit apprehensively—about.

"I kinda figured."

Omi turned, studying the raven-haired youth curiously. "How, exactly?"

"My first indication was when you blushed the moment you saw the bed."

Heat rose up to the boy's ears at the brazen statement, and he looked away huffily, demeanor the slightest bit tighter. "It's kind of hard to miss." He seemed offended.

Hisa followed the young man's movements with a trained eye, expression softening. "You don't really want to do this, do you?"

At the rhetoric, Omi spun around indignantly. "Yeah, I do--"

The curly-haired man didn't seem all that convinced. "I wouldn't mind, Omi. It's all right."

"No…" the blonde looked away, brows coming together, "I have to…I want to," large eyes blinked up at Hisa, "honest."

For perhaps the third time that night, the boy graced Omi with that lazy grin of his. Something about it was innately akin to Youji. "All right then. Would you like something to drink? You're kinda tense."

Omi nodded, kicking off his shoes as he settled himself by the edge of the bed, socked feet feeling the vibrations that filtered upwards from the club. They were in the rooms above the Lime—which, despite the overall shabbiness of the place, resembled a motel rather loyally.

Hisa reappeared after a few minutes, a few bottles in hand, plastic cups held secure at his mouth. He smiled apologetically. "I wasn't sure if you liked drinking straight from the bottle," he motioned towards the cups as he settled down his load. "Brought some soda, too…in case—well, in case you get too tipsy on me."

The blonde smiled at that, aware that he was a lightweight in regards to alcohol. Hisa was crouched before him, having made himself comfortable on the carpeted floor, and was straightening up all the things he had brought up in meticulous order. Omi watched him, decidedly taken with the boy's self-confidence…with the way his shirt hung almost too-large on his shoulders...and the way he bit his lower lip when he was thinking.

Quite on impulse, Omi reached out, fingertips alighting on the underside of the brunette's chin, and pulled the young man's face up towards him. Hisa blinked at him blankly for a few seconds, surprise crossing his features momentarily, before his eyes fell closed and he relaxed into Omi's kiss.

Omi hadn't quite meant to do what he had, but once his lips were pressed against those of Hisa, he felt the oddest sensation filter through his body. It was a mixture of exhilaration and anticipation—one that left him with an indefinite longing somewhere in his heart. _Is this what you feel, Youji-kun? Is that what it's like to be intimate with a stranger…? _

Hisa pulled away despite himself, the blonde's kiss a pleasing surprise, and offered him that beaming smile of his. He cocked his head adoringly to the right. "Nightcap?"

Pale blond brow quirking, Omi smiled, sliding off the bed to land before the other boy. "Okay."

Hisa prepared the drink easily enough, bringing his own glass to his lips and he watched Omi do the same, dark blue eyes falling shut as he drank down the substance heartily and without hesitation. "Don't drink so fast, you'll get dizzy."

His suggestion went unheeded, and—had he not known better—Hisa would have guessed Omi had a penchant for irresponsibility.

Once the drink was downed, sapphire eyes focused hazily on eyes of a paler hue.

"You okay?"

"Yeah..."

His voice was raspy, husky…deepened by the burning alcohol he'd consumed. God, but did Youji have a head for that stuff; he was hardly three drinks down, and already he was having trouble focusing.

The dark-haired teen approached him slowly, as one does a cornered animal, and pressed a quick and experimental peck to the boy's neck. The blonde offered no complaint, gaze somewhat distracted, lopsided smile on his lips. "That feels good."

A bit of a sad smile graced Hisa's face. "I bet it does." At least the drink had eased Omi enough. He seemed relaxed…numbed enough that he wouldn't jolt whenever he touched him, but sufficiently lucid to stop if he should want to.

Omi reached out towards him once more, fingertips choosing to tangle themselves about curly locks, and brought the boy's face close to his. Hisa allowed himself to be pulled, the heat of Omi's breaths landing near his lips, and swallowed thickly when he felt the other hesitate. He was about to reiterate his earlier claim—that it was all right if they were to stop—when the blonde crushed his mouth to his, grasp strong and demanding.

He was curious, Hisa realized, mildly aware of the boy's wandering hands—he was curious and confused all at the same time. The blonde pulled away then, biting his lip as if in chastisement, and drew in a deep breath before resting his forehead against his. His chest was rising and falling heavily, the exertion of the kiss evident in his taut muscles, and Hisa couldn't help the desire that bubbled within him. "Did that feel good?"

The brunette hesitated at the question, not quite sure what exactly the young man wanted to know, and settled for a nod instead. "Yeah," he finally whispered, once he was sure his voice was steady enough.

He ran his fingers through his hair, somewhat shaken at the blonde's forwardness. He really wouldn't have thought that Omi would have taken so easily to the idea of—

"How did you figure?"

Wrinkles appeared on a tanned forehead. "What?"

"How did you know?"

"Know what?" Hisa eyed the glass of beer the youngster had poured himself warily.

"That I'd never…done stuff like that."

"You don't seem the type."

It was said in that same tone…that same timbre.

_'You're not like this, Omi…don't say that!' _

The blonde shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Why does everyone say that? I'm not that innocent, am I?"

"I never said you were," Hisa sighed despite himself, and looked past the blonde, "there's a difference between being inexperienced and being innocent."

"What about decadent?"

A grin came to the boy's lips. "You don't look decadent."

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"I can prove it to you."

The brunette looked skeptical. "How exactly?"

Omi shrugged, setting his glass aside and taking in the disheveled appearance of his companion. Hisa's hair was tousled—mussed, so that the lively curls were even more unruly than they had been. His lips were swollen, bright and pink.

He approached the dark-haired youth slowly. And then, more softly than before, met his lips in a kiss, only just barely aware that Hisa had let himself fall back, and that he was now positioned over the young man, arms and legs astride. The vibration of the music teased his spread palms, and he could feel its pulsation through the brunette's kiss. Tanned arms came about his neck, pulling him closer, and he could taste the tang of sweet liquor on Hisa's tongue, comforted by the warmth the other radiated.

He surrendered to instinct entirely, mildly aware of the hands that worked to unbutton his shirt, and the same feverish fingertips that later toyed with the buckle of his jeans. His own hands acquired a life of their own, roaming over a flat, defined chest, and enjoying the feel of smooth, muscled biceps beneath his grasp.

And, all through it, he had to push back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.

_If this is how it feels, Youji-kun…then I don't quite understand why you would do it… _

* * *

Aya and Youji stood unblinkingly in their living room. The faint clicking of a switch could be heard, and Aya tried the toggle of the light fixture once more, frowning when the room remained bathed in darkness. Tensing, and hearing the tell-tale grate of Youji's wire behind him, the redhead reached tentatively for his katana. 

And then…

"Aya…? Is that you?"

The voice was soft, and sounded the slightest bit concerned, but Aya recognized it easily enough. "What the hell are you doing sitting in the middle of the dark?"

The rustle of fabric suggested to both Aya and Youji that their absent-minded comrade had shrugged. "I think the power short-circuited a while ago."

"And you did nothing?" the redhead took a few tentative steps, still quite unaccustomed to the layout of the inn, and felt Youji bump into him from behind. At hearing the blonde's disgruntled grunt, and now aware of an extra presence in the room, a wan smile spread across the brunette's cheeks.

"Youji, you damn bastard."

The lithe man felt himself smile at the tossed insult, the man's tone having been more affectionate than irritated, and looked toward the voice. "I can't believe you've been sitting here like a bum all this time."

The brunette bristled. "I didn't know where anything was, and I damn well didn't feel like falling to my death down an uncharted, dark staircase trying to find the damn circuit box."

"What were you trying to do?" That was Aya, and from the sound of his voice, he was near the farther side of the room, moving towards the kitchen.

"Yeah, Kenken," Youji approached the couch and reached out tentatively, his probing fingertips landing on a mass of silky, chocolate hair, "What were you doing anyway?"

Ken blew at the bangs that Youji had unwittingly ruffled into his face, frowning the slightest bit at the discomfort. "Soccer."

"You caused a short circuit by playing soccer?"

Aya sounded just the slightest bit incredulous.

If it hadn't been so dark, the redhead might have been able to see Ken glare. "I was trying to turn on that stupid television."

"Did you kick it?" Youji.

"No." Ken's tone was defensive. It wasn't as though he hadn't _thought_ of it.

"That always works for me."

"Youji!"

"What?"

Ken felt a smile warm his cheeks. "I think there are some candles next to the utensil drawer."

Aya looked curiously toward the direction of the chattering voices. It was dark—it had to be past midnight, at least, and even the moon couldn't help much with their situation. "How'd you know that?"

"I saw them when I was looking for food."

"Damn pig."

"Hoar. And I mean the double entendre."

"You're just jealous."

A few seconds later, a candle had been lightened, and Aya appeared at their side, candle outstretched as if in offering. Youji bowed ceremoniously, muttering something akin to some ancient language, before looking around. "The chibi's in his room?"

"Chibi?" Ken's brow crinkled, "Chibi hasn't been a chibi for the longest time; and no…I've been alone since you left."

"Omi's missing?" Aya's voice was tight.

The brunette shrugged. "He hasn't called or anything, unless maybe the power cut the phone lines, too."

"This is really the last thing we need."

Ken looked inquisitively about him. He wondered just how much he'd missed over the past few days.

"I'll go look for the circuit box. Here—" Aya handed the two another candle—a smaller one, and made his way towards the basement door.

* * *

It was three o'clock in the morning. Three o'clock. Even _he_ had the decency to show up earlier than that…and if not—he certainly didn't bother coming home. Momentarily, Youji wondered if perhaps the younger boy had gotten lost. But no…Omi was as bright as the next, and he would have phoned—or at least left a note—if that had been the case. 

Finding the power box had been easy enough, and the lights had been restored for a good two hours by then. So, logically, it couldn't even be an issue of a missed call. The tall blonde checked his cell phone once more. Where there had been a record 27 missed calls there a few days earlier, not a single one was visible today. _Dammit, Omi…where the hell are you?_

He was distracted from his thoughts—if only minutely—by Ken's idle chattering in the kitchen. He had somehow cornered the impassive redhead sometime earlier, and was now running a play by play of the game between Argentina and Brazil that he had seen at the hospital. Aya—interestingly enough—was holding up rather well under the onslaught, managing to nod occasionally despite his overall indifference to the topic.

He was about to turn and argue with Ken on who the man thought was Brazil's MVP, when the soft pattering of footsteps caught his attention. Turning back towards the door, he felt himself stiffen.

He had taken up residence on the couch for the past few hours, guarding the front door like a sentinel so that Ken snickered at his expense, and thus far, this had been the first noise he'd heard. Body tensing further, he was aware of the sound of a key entering a lock, and the genuine attempt of an individual at making a silent entrance.

The young blonde was no doubt surprised when—despite his successful and quiet entry—three heads turned towards him once he had set foot in the inn's living room. Ken waved happily at him from the kitchen area. Aya regarded him strangely, gaze immediately shifting towards Youji.

The elder of the two blondes took in the sight of the youngest Weiss with a heavy heart. The young man's hair was tousled—tangled, even—and his cheeks were warm with color. His clothing was rumpled, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, one broken, he realized, and his laces were untied. He looked as though he'd thrown on his clothes and run out of someplace in a hurry.

At seeing all three pairs of eyes focused on him, the blonde was initially startled, looking for all the world like a deer caught in headlights, unsure whether to bolt, or remain where he was. He cast Youji another look, expression unreadable, before he pushed his way past the living room and towards the stairs.

He wasn't answering to anyone.

"Omi…?"

He had hesitated as his hand wrapped about the banister of the staircase, its surface cool and refreshing. He glanced back towards Ken and Aya, taking in their bewildered expressions. He didn't dare look back at Youji—who had called him—and offered the brunette a wavering smile. "Hey there, Ken." His voice shook the slightest bit.

The young man looked back at him absently, before offering him a genuine smile. Then, at what he guessed was Aya's beckoning, the two quickly exited.

Damn.

"Omi?" three long strides and Youji was at his sides, cologne diffusing towards him.

Omi took in a stabilizing breath, curbing his desire to shudder at the man's essence, and turned cobalt eyes in his direction. "Yeah?" There was a hint of warning in his voice. Of rebellion.

"Are you okay?" The man approached him then, moving closer, and halted when the smell of liquor floated towards his nostrils. He seemed puzzled at first, the association of Omi and alcohol being a difficult connection for his mind to make, and looked into the blonde's eyes at the discovery.

And there was something else there.

A certain defiance lurked in those blue depths that belied something further. The boy couldn't stop the need to look away. "I'm fine."

He seemed to bypass his original decision to go upstairs, maneuvering past the older man instead, heading toward the kitchen in hopes that the man would leave him alone. But Youji followed him, now positive the youth had been drinking—if not by the smell of it, then most certainly by his ambling walk—and stood uncertainly at the threshold of the door. He had never been in that position before.

"Have you been drinking?"

A shrug. Omi pulled open the refrigerator and scanned its contents. "So what if I have?"

"Omi—"

"What?" His tone was exasperated. Youji tried again.

"That's…really not good for your health."

The youth snorted, his face managing to twist into a derisive expression, and raised a fine brow sardonically. "Really now? And when have you ever listened to me when I've said that?"

Youji was at a loss. "Omi—"

"Hmm…?"

The russet blonde was suddenly aware of how much older the youth suddenly looked, leaning against the mahogany cabinetry of the kitchen, eyebrow raised, hair tousled, thumbs hooked in his jeans. He looked as though…

Youji's eyes narrowed slightly, and he saw the blonde stiffen imperceptibly at his suspicion. Standing, he made his way over towards him, pausing only a few inches from his face. Omi moved back initially, looking at him from behind thick lashes, and then raised his head defiantly.

Startled by what he saw, and having received more than a generous whiff of the teen's breath, his hand darted out to the youth's chin, whereupon he held the boy in check. He blinked a few times to clear his eyes, and then—turning the boy's face gently to the left—spied a smooth, darkening blemish.

Omi seemed to have realized what he was looking at, and his eyes widened the slightest bit as his hand shot out towards his neck. He covered the offending bruise self-consciously.

"How'd you get that?"

"It's none of your business."

"It's pretty impressive—promising lover."

Youji knew well enough how rebellion worked. He'd been a problem child if there'd ever been one. And he knew, sure as hell was hot, that the less attention one gave the actual action, the more discouraged the person would be from carrying it out again.

The blonde's eyes widened a fraction further, before narrowing dangerously. "I'd love to say it was Mastermind, but I'm sad to say even Hisa isn't that gifted."

"Hisa?"

Omi paused, regretting he'd let the boy's name slide, and turned away. He reached for a glass, intent on serving himself some water, when he felt the older man lean into him from behind, nose nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder. Startled, the blonde remained where he was, frozen, until the older man backed away.

It was unmistakable.

The scent of the raven-haired boy still lingered on his clothes—on his body—and it had wafted to him unbiddingly. And he was all too aware of it. "Sex."

"What!" Omi turned and regarded him apprehensively from behind guarded eyes.

"You smell like sex."

The small blonde's eyes dropped to the floor, and he made to push past Youji and into his room, but the jade-eyed man held him effectively in check. "Why?"

"Why what?" Another push to free himself.

"Did you really do it?"

Silence.

"Omi—"

"What?"

"Did you?"

"I'm thirsty."

The youth turned, glass still in his hand from his earlier attempt to fill it with water, and turned on the tap, shakingly letting it run for a few seconds before placing his glass under the cascade of water. Once it glass was sufficiently full, he brought it to his lips, the cool sensation reminding him of the ice Hisa had placed in his drink.

"Where did you go?"

He was still drinking. The liquid was bliss to his parched lips. And finally, "To a club."

The edges of Youji's eyes crinkled in thought. A club? Near here?

But before he could ask much else, the youth had placed his glass back in the sink and left the kitchen.

* * *

_Omi's rebelling, and RanKen seems to be on hold. WAIT FOR IT!_


	13. Regret and Redemption

* * *

**_In Fear Of  
_**_By the Weaver Atropos  
__Chapter 13--Regret and Redemption_

* * *

"You look like shit." 

"Yeah well, you don't look much better."

Omi regarded the recuperating brunette idly, his head pulsating even after the two tablets of advil he'd consumed, and took another sip of his coffee. His thoughts were fuzzy, somewhat muddled, but the slight buzz that reigned in his subconscious at least guaranteed that he'd be unable to think for a while.

"Where were you last night?"

Omi shrugged a little. "Around."

"With school friends?"

Another shrug.

"There was a mission."

Oh? Blue eyes blinked curiously upwards to meet with chocolate ones. The brunette nodded, "Aya and Youji went. Had something to do the Kritiker Headquarters. The building was under attack and there were some documents that needed saving, more or less."

"Did they retrieve what they were supposed to?"

Ken muffled a yawn as he nodded, "From what I understand, yeah. Files on Schwarz, Schrient, and all that good stuff. God, I'm tired."

The blonde smiled, "You shouldn't be up. It's too early."

Ken offered him a sheepish grin. "Soccer game in fifteen minutes."

Somehow, he wasn't surprised. Rolling his eyes, and regretting the action when his world began spinning, Omi lifted his near empty coffee cup, and settled it in the sink. "I'm sleepy."

A wry grin quirked at Ken's chapped lips. "That type of activity is bound to do that to ya."

_Wha..? _

Spying the tensing of the youth's shoulders, Ken made to stand. "It's okay. Youji didn't tell me anything. It's just kind of hard to miss is all."

"What is?" Cobalt turned to meet amused chocolate.

"That thing on your neck that just screams, 'Look at me! I just got laid!'"

A faint blush caressed the blonde's cheeks as he fingered the bruise on the side of his neck self-consciously. "You're not gonna lecture me?

The recovering man shrugged, "I don't think I have any right to. I mean…It's not like I haven't done the same thing at one point or other. And—you're old enough to do what you want, Omi. We all trust your judgment."

A blonde brow rose skeptically. "That, I doubt."

"Give him time, Omi. Youji's still a bit…in the dark. Always has been, if you ask me."

"I just don't understand."

"Hmm…?" The brunette made his way back towards the table, motioning for the smaller youth to sit down once he realized there were things that were troubling him.

"…I mean…I don't see where he has any _gall_ interrogating me after what he did--"

"What did he do?"

About to respond, Omi caught himself, aware that the revelation of such information could incriminate his partner. He decided to shrug instead, replacing Mastermind's name with that of an old girlfriend of the man.

Ken detected the pause, but said nothing, opting for a raised eyebrow instead. "That's not anything particularly new."

The blue-eyed youth let out a sigh at the comment, forehead falling forward to rest in his palms. "Yeah…I know. I just—I thought, maybe with me, it'd be different."

"With you?"

Omi peeked at Ken from behind his interlaced fingertips. "With me."

The brunette seemed to be considering exactly what the youngest Weiss could mean by _with me_, when understanding dawned suddenly in his mocha depths. "You were together?"

"Define 'together.'"

Ken regarded the question thoughtfully, a bit apprehensive about the situation. "Together…urm, a couple—going on dates, having anniversaries—"

The young blonde shook his head in a negative. "No…none of that."

"Then what?"

A pale blush filtered into Omi's cheeks. "Other things."

"Like?"

"I don't know…" the boy shrugged, "Just…things."

"Ah…" Ken gave a nod. He looked at the blonde from behind guarded eyes, wondering exactly what on earth Youji had been thinking. "So…what you're saying is—"

"—that my age, apparently, makes him an irreconcilable pedophile."

He couldn't resist the grin that came to his lips then. "Youji? A pedophile? That man's much worse things. I don't see why that should bother him much."

The small blonde smiled at him from the canopy he'd made for himself with his arms. "Yeah."

* * *

Aya fingered the file half-heartedly. He hadn't looked at it since he and Youji had been in the car, and—despite his better judgement—he was dying to know what lay inside it. But, the more idealistic part of him found it entirely difficult to delve into the mysteries of Ken's life. 

Sure. He wanted to know what the brunette might be hiding…what he inadvertently knew, even…

But a large part of him wanted _Ken_ to be the one to tell him those things.

A stupid file—grinning tan face and all—wasn't quite a substitute.

Sighing, he shoved the file back under his pillow, and picked up the box of folders they'd recovered from Kritiker. He had better put them in a safer place.

* * *

"Aya?" 

Still foreign to the layout of the inn, Ken padded quietly about. Omi had left a while earlier for school—it being the last day they were to spend at the rented house—and Youji was off somewheres…as was his custom. As far as he knew, only Aya was still in the quaint little home, packing their impromptu belongings.

His fingertips curled about the wood of the doorframe as he moved about, still unsteady on his feet, and—a look at a mirror confirmed—terribly pale. He'd had a light breakfast, juice and some toast, and had joked around with Omi for a bit, until the boy had headed off for school. A wry grin came to his lips. School. He remembered the days when his biggest concern was only the test he'd have third period.

Life certainly got harder the older you got.

He could've watched a soccer match—a couple were playing—but he had grown tired of that diversion quickly enough. Besides…things were so much more interesting when Aya was around. At least then he could _explain_ to someone why Diego's kicks were so fascinating. And, at least from what he could gather, Aya wasn't entirely _repulsed_by soccer. Though, it was sad to say that Youji was.

He called out to the redhead once more, scratching his earlobe absently, and paused when he arrived at the hallway. Three doors greeted him equally from left and right. Chancing another call, and receiving no answer, the brunette headed out toward the first door, biting his lips as he eased the it open.

When Dolce&Gabbana and Armani greeted him, he knew he'd entered Youji's room. The door opposite his was Omi's. He ventured a little farther, figuring Aya would rather room next to Omi than Youji, and slowly peeked his head inside. A scent that was distinctly lavender and spices teased at him, and he stepped inside despite himself.

It was Aya's room.

Granted, it wasn't the redhead's _real_ room, nor was it decorated to his fashion, but the aroma that lingered all around betrayed his presence, and Ken couldn't help the extra breath he selfishly inhaled. He didn't dare touch anything, aware that his leader was the type that could detect the evidence of a foreign presence, and headed instead towards the window to the far left. His fingertips touched the glass, pads cooling, and he smiled a little as he took a step back. Something told him Aya hadn't even looked out the window.

He glanced back towards the pristine bed at his side, navy blue coverlet stretched immaculately, just as flawless as the one who had made it. His fingertips reached forward of their own volition, touching the softness of the comforter…just for the sake of knowing Aya had touched it, too, and felt his breath hitch when he lost his balance. By instinct, he spread out his palms before him to lessen the impact, but he had fallen onto the redhead's bed, and the only thing he felt was a slight twinge where his fall had jolted his injured hands. So much for keeping his presence unnoticed.

He was about to stand, feeling guilty enough that he'd ruined the perfection of the bed, when his sweeping fingertips hit the edge of something unyielding and pointed beneath the redhead's pillow. He frowned, musing that the very presence of the object belied the necessity of the pillow, and was about to pull it forward—fingertips already curling about it—when a thud outside the door distracted him.

He stood quickly, with more strength that he thought he had, and peered out the door. And there was Aya, doubled over, cursing a little as more of the objects he'd been holding onto sputtered to the floor. Aware that someone was watching him, he lifted his eyes, and took in the site of Ken—hanging onto the frame of his door—and looking inordinately guilty. "I was looking for you."

Belatedly, Aya realized he was still stooped over, and that all he'd been holding onto had already fallen to the floor. He straightened.

It was the first time since before Ken had been hospitalized that the two were standing before each other, silent and searching.

"Need help?"

Ken fell to his knees where he was, aware that he was a good three feet away from where the redhead stood. He reached for a small marble that had slid in his direction, and held it out towards his partner, his hands shaking the slightest bit. Aya said nothing, but walked over towards where he was, and held out his hand, letting Ken drop the smooth, rounded marble into his outstretched palm.

"You should be resting."

"I'm okay."

The brunette lifted his gaze at the assurance, smiling a bit to let Aya know he really _was_ well, and scratched his head. "Everyone's gone."

"They always are."

He'd only just realized how lonely things were when Ken wasn't around. Omi went off to school early on during the day; Youji disappeared for days at a time…if it weren't for the temperamental youth…Aya would spend all his days in solitude.

Ken offered the other a tight-lipped smile at the information, feeling uncertain around this Aya—the one who stared at him carelessly, and whispered words that made him sound like a philosophical five-year old boy in need of a hug.

He was mildly aware that Aya had sat down, Indian-style, beside him, and was pulling an old, off-white crate towards them. "Did Omi tell you? About the files?"

"Hmm…yeah," Ken spied the crate curiously, "He said there was stuff about Schwarz in there."

Aya nodded. He'd transferred the files from the box to the crate a while ago, realizing that it was easier to keep track off that way. "I haven't looked through it all, yet."

The brunette gave another nod. "Aya…?"

"Yeah?" the redhead wasn't looking at him.

Ken craned his head so that he caught the man's eye. "You said…You said you knew what I had…"

* * *

"Where can I find Hisa?" 

Youji didn't bother with honorifics, nor did he with being polite. Pulling a cigarette to his lips, he lighted it impatiently and cast a glare at the burly man who had simply crossed his arms. "He's busy."

"Busy doing what!"

The man raised a thick, matted brow and extended his arm in a regal wave and bowed grandiosely. "As much as I'm sure you'd like to know, I doubt he'd appreciate it much."

Youji's lips twitched. He hated being mocked. "Where is he?"

"He's busy," the man's tone changed, and he straightened before Youji.

* * *

"We have to pack up." 

"Aya—" Ken's voice was strained, almost desperate. He reached out towards the redhead, his grasp weak, and held on to the man's bicep.

Aya hesitated, closing his eyes at the feel of the man's touch, before pulling roughly away. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."

"Aya…"

Ken drew in a shaky breath, his fingertips holding onto nothing, and felt his vision cloud. "I…" his breathing was erratic.

He couldn't see.

* * *

"Hisa? You've got an insistin' customer." 

The dark-haired youth turned at the voice, taking in the sight of a tall, lithe blond man. His gaze was sharp, jade eyes narrowed, and he seemed a good five or six years older than he was. He nodded at the club's bouncer, head cocked to the side at the visitor, and spied him curiously.

He didn't know him.

And, unless he'd be mistaken, he'd been asked for by name.

* * *

He couldn't breath. He hiccupped despite himself, blinking his eyes rapidly—almost convulsing—and drew himself backwards with his injured hands. 

'It was the dead who groaned within.'

* * *

_"It was the dead who groaned within" from Edgar Allen Poe, THE SLEEPER. check it out._

* * *


	14. Security Breach

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
**__**The Weaver Atropos**__  
Chapter 14--Security Breached  
_

* * *

"Who are you?" 

"A visiting friend."

Hisa regarded the man strangely, not quite sure whether he should know him or not, before shrugging resolutely. "What do you want, then?"

"What do _you_ want?"

Ice-blue eyes narrowed the slightest bit. Hisa was about to respond when a heavy arm fell across his shoulders.

"You interested, pal?" the tone was near possessive, and squinty black eyes studied Youji from behind greasy, wavy hair.

Hisa looked away then, sagging a little under the weight placed on him, and his eyes lost focus.

"This one has a special price."

* * *

It was amazing how he couldn't even cry anymore. Aya turned towards him suddenly, perhaps startled by his ragged breaths, or maybe by the fact that his wrists were bleeding. He reached towards him then, but he swatted him away, lost in his vision, lost in the red and purple that danced before his eyes.

* * *

"Special price?" Youji couldn't quite hide the wonder in his voice.

The new presence gave a nod, and pushed the raven-haired youth roughly into his arms. "He's young."

Youji didn't quite have time to contemplate what it was _that_ was supposed to mean, when the boy was pulled away from him, this time to be obscenely held onto by the speaking man. He nipped at the boy's neck before continuing. "And he's good."

Pale blue eyes blinked up at him.

* * *

He drew in an unsteady, hollow breath once more, and coughed. Damn it, but was he getting to be a psychological disaster. At any slight incidence of confrontation he turned into a physiological mess.

He really didn't know where that had come from. He was aware that Aya was closer now than he'd been before, and—at the given moment—he wished the redhead would move away. He pushed weakly at the hand that was perched at his shoulder, and slid backwards once more. "Leave me alone."

"Ken—"

"I can't breathe when you're around me like that."

Obediently, the redhead moved away, studying the crouched brunette hesitantly. Ken brought a shaky hand to his forehead, feeling its clamminess, and closed his eyes. "Sorry."

"For?"

"Having a damn seizure everytime you say something. At least I didn't throw up this time."

_That would have probably felt better, though._

Aya remained where he was, not sure if he was supposed to say anything to that. "What happened?"

Ken shrugged. "You probably know that better than I do."

* * *

"500 American dollars."

Youji looked the man holding the boy captive in the eye. Then, he locked eyes with ice blue. Was he…?

Eyebrows knitting, he pulled out his wallet and presented the man with four bills. A wide leer spread across purple lips. "Two hours." He looked toward Hisa, speaking as though Youji weren't even there, "you've got a good one this time, kid. I'm sure you'll enjoy him as much as he'll enjoy you."

And, like before, a warm supple body was thrown at him.

* * *

"Omi-kun!"

Omi turned at the feminine voice, face falling into its customary smile. "Good morning, Maa-chan."

The young girl latched herself at Omi's side, bright grin making him blush the slightest bit, and poked him in his side. "Tai-kun says you have the text Sensei wanted us to read for class."

He nodded. "Ne…can I borrow it! I wasn't able to find it last night and—

_Last night…_

_Last night had been…different. The more I think about it…the more it makes sense._

—So, can I?"

* * *

The young man peered at him defiantly. "What do you want?" His voice was tighter now; it had lost the amused quality it'd had earlier.

"I just paid for something, didn't I?"

The insolence disappeared instantly, and the boy closed his eyes. "Do it, then."

* * *

"The doctors said you would be fine in a few days."

A wry grin greeted his attempts at conversation. "Fuck the doctor. You know better than that."

The redhead frowned a little, still not quite satisfied at Ken's explanation for what had just happened, and squeezed the marble in his hand. The brunette had given him a scare. For a minute, it had seemed for all the world as though Ken was going to have another one of his attacks, the next, he was fine—albeit his breathing was somewhat labored—sardonically mocking everything he said.

"You know it better than I do. I'm never gonna get better."

He couldn't actually say that he did. He remembered the file under his pillow, and wondered if Ken had found it. That would certainly account for the way he was acting. "Do I?"

The brunette shrugged. "Everyone's bound to know more about it than I do."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because…I don't even know what I have."

* * *

"You're a whore?"

Pale blue eyes shot open, expression somewhat indignant, before the youth spoke. "Did you come here to mock me then?"

"No." He really hadn't. This was the last thing he could have honestly expected.

"Then what? If you came here for what you say you did, you're taking an awfully long time going through with it."

Youji gave a weary sigh. It should have figured that Omi would end up messing around with a rebellious, glaring prostitute. Kneading his temples with both hands, the tall blonde heaved a breath. "I'm here about Omi."

_Omi?_

Blue eyes turned suddenly dangerous. "What about him?"

Youji was startled by the possessiveness of the youth. "Nothing…nothing about him. I just wanted to see you."

Hisa seemed confused. And then, understanding seemed to dawn on him. "Oh…_you're_ his 'friend.'"

The brunette seemed a bit deterred then. He certainly hadn't expected the person Omi had been angsting over to be a tall, lithe, jade-eyed man who practically _oozed_ of sex. Bernard had been right. Despite his instinctual aversion, he really wouldn't have minded being with the man; he definitely beat his usual crowd of fat, stubby, middle-aged men. Though, a part of him had to wonder why Omi had bothered seeking him out, when he had _that_ man.

He certainly seemed the type that would know enough about how sex worked.

A smile toyed at the corners of his lips. "I get it."

Youji glared at the boy's tone.

"But, I have to admit, it doesn't make much logical sense—even for Omi…so then, the problem had to have been you." He regarded the blonde curiously, "I don't get it. Omi's perfectly desirable."

Hisa watched, bemused, as the man's lips tightened into a thin line. "And…despite it all, I'd say he's a good lover. I don't see the problem."

"Don't—"

"Don't say what?"

"Don't say that about him."

"Why not?" the young man approached him, stopping a few inches before the taller man, "It's the truth. Why don't you want to hear it?"

"He's not like that."

"How do you know?"

"I know him better than you do."

Hisa shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. You can't be _all_ that acquainted with him if you're not even aware of _who_ he is."

Youji glared. "Why are you even talking about this?"

Hisa ran a smooth hand through his hair, pushing black curly locks away from his face. He was going to need a haircut, soon. His retort was no less poignant than Youji's question had been. "Why are _you_ even here?"

"Because—"

"Because it's okay for _you_ to buy someone, but it's not okay for him to do the same?"

"He _bought_ you?"

Youji seemed scandalized. Hisa smiled. "No. He didn't. But that's not even the point of the matter, is it?"

The young man studied the blonde steadily, taking in the man's silk shirt and inhaling the strong scent of his cologne. "Why are you so afraid of him?"

He had kneeled down in front of him, hands coming to rest at the man's knees, and was peering upwards at him almost sadly. "He's not afraid of you. I know that much." _Otherwise he wouldn't have gone this far to prove it to you_.

"Did it really happen?"

Hisa's brows came together, and he gave a bit of a sigh. "Shouldn't you ask _him_ that question?"

"I'd believe it more coming from your own lips."

"What does it matter, anyway?"

"It matters."

"Why?" Hisa leaned forwards, "Why should it? He's not anymore tainted than he already was."

Youji pursed his lips. It shouldn't matter, but it did. "Do you know how old he is?"

The young boy at his feet shrugged at the question, and for a moment, his mop of tangled hair reminded him of Ken.

"Seventeen, eighteen?"

Youji nodded. "He's…"

"He's an adult. I'm not blind. My hands aren't numb. I know what a man's body feels like. I don't think I have to regale you on the particulars. You know more about those matters than him and I combined, don't you? You were probably doing worse things at his age." Hisa cocked his head to the right in that gesture that was distinctly his, "How old are you anyway?"

"Twenty one."

Hisa snorted. "Mid-life crisis at twenty. How depressing."

Youji held back his retort when he realized the boy wasn't finished speaking. His hands were still positioned at his knees, his touch—the blonde realized—innately sensual.

"He's more than ready for you. And you've been needing him for a long time."

"He's not—"

"Not what?"

"He's not…ready yet."

Hisa offered the man a sardonic smile. "If he wasn't before, he certainly is now. Maybe you're the one who's not ready."

Youji sighed. He shouldn't have come. He really…he really shouldn't have come.

"He's gonna get tired of it eventually. And then, he won't even be waiting for _you_."

Hisa's words stung, but they rang true enough. It had already happened once, hadn't it?

He lifted jade eyes and glanced at the young man before him. There was a sad look in his eyes, "Touch him next time."

"Touch him?"

"Mmm hmm…." Hisa nodded as he stood, "touch him, right _here_," and with that, he pressed a smooth kiss to a spot just behind the man's ear."

* * *

_"Because I don't even know what I have."_

Aya stood where he was, looking awkwardly at the youth. "But—"

"When you said you knew…back in the car…I thought—" Ken gave a bit of a shrug, "I thought you really did…"

_But…the file—_

The brunette looked upwards hesitantly. "Do you?"

Aya was about to respond, when he remembered the file. He paused. "But…doesn't—doesn't Kritiker know?"

Ken seemed startled. "What?"

"They know, don't they?" Aya's tone was too assured for it to have been a question.

The younger man studied him curiously, but settled for an absent nod. He glanced downwards at his hands. "Something like that."

"And they never told you?" A bit of a shrug.

* * *

Aya sat, halfway propped on a fluffy white pillow, in his room, illuminated by the soft glare of his lamp. After they had finished dragging the stuff into the downstairs foyer, the two had retreated to their respective rooms, Ken a bit more sulkier than he had been.

The redhead fingered the edges of the file, and pulled it open once more. He read the bold, type-written text heading, and heaved a sigh.

_Hidaka, Ken. Recruital._

* * *

"See, it's not hard at all—" Omi shot Maa a beaming smile, having finished explaining the concept of quantum numbers in physics to the young girl, and stretched. "Ne…what time is it?"

Maa gave a bit of a glance at her watched, and shot from her seat with a gasp, "Eleven-thirty! My mom's gonna kill me!"

Omi regarded the young girl with an apologetic smile, and picked up his bag and jacket, "I can take you home."

"Oh! Would you! Thanks!"

* * *

Maa-chan was crazy. Omi smiled at the mental image of her scampering up the front steps of her house, and attempting—quite unsuccessfully—to make a quiet entry. At least her mother hadn't taken a good enough look at him to realize her daughter had ridden home on a motorcycle with a strange boy she didn't know.

Glory be, and what war might have been unleashed if she had.

Without the weight of the girl to bring him down, and being less careful on account of it, Omi pressed his foot more fully on the pedal of his moped and drove aimlessly for a while. He'd get home eventually, but at the moment he didn't want to deal with much. He was tired. He thought of Hisa…but he didn't think the young man would want to see him.

And unwittingly, his thoughts traveled back to Youji. He didn't know what he felt for the older man. Hisa had been…different. A different taste of something he didn't think he'd ever be able to find in anyone outside of Youji. And, while the tall blonde made him queasy at the knees at times…the notion that _he_ made Hisa feel that same tentativeness was mind-blowing. It was an ego-trip of an entirely different kind.

It was the kind of sentiment that made one feel yearned for—important.

And, honestly speaking, despite it all…he never once remembered feeling desired by Youji. Esteemed, yes—cared for, yes. But desired? Never.

* * *

He couldn't get that image out of his mind. The tall, lithe, raven-tressed young man he'd met at the club hadn't been the one he'd imagined. Omi's Hisa was a lot more…different than he had perceived. He had half-expected to be confronted by an ill-natured child-abuser. And he'd found…a rebellious teenager who seemed hell-bent on making him see that Omi wasn't all that innocent.

Or, at least, virginal.

Heaven's gates close on him, but Youji couldn't quite fathom an Omi that _wasn't_ virginal. Sure, they had kissed back at the inn when Ken had only first been hospitalized—a little over a week ago—but…things had been so different then. They had _seemed_ so different. And yet…even then, Youji could remember the boy's exasperation with him; with the way he refused to push for anything _more_ than a kiss—the way he would back away when the youth made it clear he _wanted_ more. It had never occurred to him prior that Omi wanted it. Wanted _him_. He'd been stupidly narrow-minded to the fact.

And Hisa'd been right. Omi had grown tired of waiting. As congenial and dedicated as he might be, Omi was as much a human and as much a man as he was. And Youji—of all people—knew full well how hard it could be to control his more instinctual desires. But he'd never really considered the possibility that Omi harbor those, too. And…a certain part of him had probably felt hurt that Youji'd never returned his advances—however subtle they might have been.

Youji frowned and rested his forehead in his palms. After Asuka's death he'd sworn off being serious about anyone. He'd stopped dating for a few years. And then…like never before, the allure of the male sex had sprung before his eyes—and as a sort of homage to Asuka—he'd decided that dating a man would have to be worlds apart from dating a woman…that dating a man would have to be much simpler.

And, like always, he'd been wrong. He'd discovered—in his own way—that the male gender was just as complex as the female one; that, if anything—and, him being a male, and unable to understand his sex _anyway_—they were more complicated. Men were buried under layers of self-preservation, egos, and facades. Women, though tending to be too sentimental for his liking, were primarily sincere. He wasn't stupid. He knew there were two-faced women around—as there were two-faced men. But…in all, women seemed all the more simpler to him.

Ever since that bright-eyed boy had unwittingly become his eye's solace, things had ceased to make sense. And his reasons for seeking the succor of his sex had withered; all the rest had been purely sexual experiences; he'd deluded himself during the time of their happenings…but that was all they had been. Since Asuka—whether it be man or woman—he hadn't ever found someone that meant more than sex for him.

And maybe that's why he was so hesitant about Omi.

He didn't want to find out that was the only interest he had in him.

He'd kill himself if that had been the cause.

* * *

Ken's file outlined his life for a good two or three years _before_ the youth had entered Weiss…which made Aya's forehead crease. It made the happenings with Kase and Creepers too coincidental. There were haphazard scribbles every now and then—detailing the peculiar condition of the boy's health, most adding that the symptoms seemed severe—yet, that nothing ever came of them. The notes were scattered throughout, enough that their existence became almost synonymous with the youth…and enough to be alarming to _anyone_ with medical experience.

There were pictures of the brunette—a younger version of him—playing soccer, laughing, arm-in-arm with a taller, almost blue-haired man. There was a sort of intimacy visible between the two of them; apparent in the way Ken's eyes would linger almost longingly on the man's form whenever the latter wasn't looking. There were at least ten pictures like that.

And there was a document on Kase, too. Of his comings and goings, his associations. Creepers was mentioned a few times, and then there was a slight mention of Ken's dismissal from the J-League. The thin report was coupled by a few newspaper clippings, and finally by a few unsigned memos. Aya was a little surprised at the ridiculous amount of detail there was to be known about the youth. His stats, his background—of which little was known, outside of the fact that he'd been largely self-supported, spending the majority of his life in an unspecified orphanage, hopping around through a couple of foster homes. But it was mostly about Kase. And their relationship.

If he had suspected something about the man's sexuality _prior_ to that kiss he'd given him…the file contained enough implications to make him completely sure that the brunette hadn't been out of his mind when he'd kissed him.

He flipped through it a bit more urgently, ignoring the guilt that was slowly seeping into him, and looked for the part about _him_. He'd seen it briefly in the car—he'd been aware of his own name being in the document…and he wondered exactly in what context that would be in.

He was leafing through some more printed sheets, taking in _more_ reports of the young man—the large majority, once more, being of the time before his recruital by Kritiker. And then he found it. In small, type-written text, he took in what was said about him:

_Fujimiya Aya, Abyssinian. Of some concern to Siberian. Made risky decisions in missions on account of him. Leader of the Weiss; sister in Police Hospital. Usual partner of Siberian. _

_Mission 005. Parameters 3.42: Siberian breached code and regulations when Abyssinian was under enemy fire; returned to forbidden sector of industry to retrieve him. Caught by enemy guards; later freed by Balinese. _

_Mission 203. Parameter 4.45: Siberian breached— _

And it went on. On about how Ken had violated some code or some mission to go back for him—or do something equally irresponsible to ensure that his teammates—primarily him—were outside of trouble. And there was another portion of the file—

* * *

_Clicky the button? Review! Let's all have a review party! You go first--XD _


	15. Dreams and Nightmares

* * *

**_In Fear Of  
_**_The Weaver Atropos  
Chapter 15--Dreams and Nightmares_

* * *

"Omi?"

The blonde paused as he closed the door, backpack falling to his forearm, hair tousled from the breeze outside. He regarded the jade-eyed man hesitantly, half-wanting to leave and half-wanting to stay. "…Yeah?"

Youji found he had nothing to say.

And the disappointment on the boy's face at the fact was unmistakable.

He made to continue up the stairs—to pack whatever clothes he had forgotten to earlier that day—when Youji's voice made him stop. "I went to see him—_Hisa_."

The youth was startled, enough that his bookbag fell with a dull thud to the ground, and he lifted dark-blue eyes at the man. His expression was uneasy, but it later faded into one of derisive mirth. He raised a brow in mocking. "That curious?"

"Omi—"

"What!"

"I'm…I'm sorry."

His gaze softened imperceptibly, "Is that all?"

"Wha—I…?"

"Ne! Omi!" Ken bounded into the room then, his face still a bit wan, but his overall demeanor one of recuperation. He threw his arm about his shoulders and smiled. "Wanna try dinner? I cooked—"

"Yes—yes," Omi offered the brunette a tight smile, his touch a bit rougher than usual, "of course."

* * *

Blackmail. That's what it had been. Suddenly, it all made sense to him. Ken's recruital—the three-year scouting…Kase's associations with Creeper. It was all clear; Kritiker was as much involved in the entire scenario as Takatori had been. At least Takatori hadn't been hypocritical about his underhandedness; Kritiker was an entirely different case.

Damn it.

Aya drove a pale palm through the plaster of the inn's wall. It all made sense. Perfect sense.

* * *

"Ken, I need to talk with you."

Chocolate eyes blinked upwards, and a cheerful smile spread over chapped lips, "Later, Aya—Omi was tellin' me about his latest project—"

"Now."

The tone was unmistakable, but it had long ceased to be intimidating. Ken waved him away with a bandaged hand, and winced when he found himself pulled out of his chair by the bicep, toned muscle clenched in a near iron grip. He had opened his mouth to argue, and had made to pull away when he took in the sight of the bleeding knuckles of the hand that held him. Brows knitting, he gave a slight nod, letting the taller man pull him away…wondering at what…was going on.

They were outside, and his skin complained at the cold that pressed against it, but he withstood it nonetheless, wriggling uncomfortably out of the redhead's grip. "What is it?" his voice was soft despite his indignation, and he was aware of the anger burning in amethyst depths.

"You knew—" It was an accusation.

Brown brows drew together, "Knew what?"

"That they were using you—"

"What?"

Ken couldn't quite say that he understood what was going on. "You knew about Kase—about Creepers and Kritiker—"

The brunette took a few backwards steps as Aya approached, eyes ablaze with disgust, cheeks pink at the anger. "What? I—what are you talking about!"

He was cornered, smooth milky arms at each side of his head, his back pressed against the cool concrete of the house. "Why _did_ you join Weiss?"

Ken looked away, unable to stare into Aya's eyes when they were so incriminating, and frowned when the man's digits tightened on his chin, pulling his face back towards him. "You knew, didn't you? That this was all a fake?"

"Aya—what are—"

"Your file, Ken! Your _file_!"

The confusion was visible on the boy's face. "I don't…understand—" his eyes traveled to the hand at his right, and there was concern, "…your hand…why'd you—"

"You don't…you don't get it, do you!"

"Get what!" he was growing exasperated, "I don't—get what you're saying…you're not making any semblance of sense, I mean…"

He looked up at the taller man, expression near miserable, "You're not making any sense at all."

Ken pushed at the redhead's forearm, ducking slightly to get away, and walked toward the very edge of the backyard. "Are you saying…you're suggesting that I _knew_ about Kritiker's recruital methods…is that it?"

He seemed a bit disappointed Aya would think such a thing of him, "I don't…not particularly about the others," he shot a sad look toward the kitchen, "…but…I'm not stupid, either."

"So you knew, then?"

"Knew _what_?"

"They don't know, Ken."

"Know _what_?"

"The cure! There _is_ no cure—it's all a lie; it's a farce to keep you in Weiss!"

Confusion nipped at the edges of the brunette's conscious until understanding set in. Had he known? Well…he probably had. It wasn't much to say he'd deluded himself into hoping—_wishing_, that Kritiker knew the answer to his illness…to its cure. He shrugged a little.

"So you _did_ know…" Aya's voice had dropped, so that it was scarcely above a whisper. The disillusionment was evident in his tone. "Then…why…_why_ did you stay in Weiss?"

"What was I _supposed_ to do?"

"Leave! You could have _left!_ Started a new life—it—"

"And what?" His temper had flared, "Pretend that I'd never killed anyone before! Buy a house with nice little picket fences—have _children_! For _what_, Aya? I'm an assassin; there _is_ no life for me—what point was there in my going back? I _wanted_ to believe in what they had to say—who wouldn't have? And then…Youji came along…and then _you_…"

He lifted his gaze momentarily, "What was I supposed to do…?"

"You were supposed to have _left_!"

Ken glared at the redhead, "Like _you're_ planning to leave when Aya-chan wakes up! Because you're planning on just _dropping_ all of us—forgetting you ever killed—when she wakes up, aren't you? _Aren't_ you!"

"Ken—"

"What!" Ken strode forward angrily, his pace wobbly, but otherwise normal, "What? I'm _tired_ of you always incriminating me; first at the park because of Sakura—then at the hospital because of Mastermind. Why can't you _trust_ me! You never make up your mind!"

"That's not true."

"It is!" Ken raised his hands over his head and dropped them heavily, "I'll leave. If that's what you want, I'll leave. _Disappear_ and pretend _nothing_ ever happened. Forget the J-League, forget Weiss, forget Omi and Youji and…everyone."

"You forgot Kase." The voice was bitter.

Ken became near livid. "Kase was _my_ best friend—"

"Was he? Is that why he framed you?"

"So what if he did! Am I supposed to forget everything else he did for me on account of that?"

"Yes!"

"_Why!_"

"Why do you keep _hurting_ yourself? I don't…"

Aya was at a loss. He'd never been apt at explaining himself, least of all when he was angry. All he did then was say things he didn't mean.

"I'm gonna die anyway…is there…anything wrong with making it come quicker?"

The brunette sighed. "Aya—"

And that was all he had to say, because the taller man trapped his escape, and pulled him crushingly close as he drew his lips to his.

* * *

"How old were you when you first killed someone?"

The youth was startled. Picking up his dropped fork, he closed his eyes in thought, humming a little to himself as he brought up the memory. "Killed…or…finished off?"

Youji found himself a bit sickened by the boy's need for clarification. "Killed."

Omi shrugged slightly as he brought in a spoonful of chicken to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before answering. "Ten, I think. Or eleven. Some time around then."

He lifted azure eyes and smiled a haunting smile, "More or less." He reached for the salt shaker and sprinkled some of it on his food before continuing, "You?"

"Nineteen." The words sounded stupidly hollow to his own ears. Omi shrugged at the confession, filling his spoon once more before rising to open the refrigerator. He returned with a can of beer, and a can of soda. He placed the beer before Youji, and popped open his soft-drink. "I honestly can't fathom how you like that stuff."

"It's refreshing."

"It tastes like vinegar," he swished the cola in his mouth before swallowing, "I like the blue-ice, though…"

"Blue ice? You had vodka and curaçao?"

Omi shrugged, "Yeah. That."

Youji regarded the youth curiously, "How many did you have exactly?"

"Three or four…I lost count…just…lots of it."

There was a bit of a smile on his face at the memory, and then, something else came over him. A look of leisure dominated his face, and the smirk that tugged on his lips was of a different kind. He picked up his soda in an effort to conceal the smile. Youji was vaguely aware that the mark on his neck had dissipated into a pale, reddish blemish.

Hisa's words came back to him…

_"...I'd say he's a good lover. I don't see the problem." _

His lips suddenly felt dry. "Didn't you feel…?"

"I felt _drunk_, if that's what you're gonna ask...like I was gonna float away any minute."

"So—"

"But I knew what I was doing. I'm not stupid."

"Did you like it?"

"Wha?" A pale blush rose to the boy's cheeks, and Youji felt himself relax at the familiarity of the moment.

"Did you like it?"

"Well…" Omi looked downwards, tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with an absent finger; his cheeks still burned at the question, but there was no trace of shame on his face, "It felt good, if that's what you're asking."

"You don't sound convinced." He'd be damned if he wasn't thrilled by the possibility.

The blonde shrugged. "It felt really good. It's…the type of thing you can't really describe…I mean…it's different from…your own touch. Just knowing that someone else is interested in you…like that…it's gratifying." He lifted his gaze the slightest bit. "You know?"

Youji gave a nod.

"It's…not so much about what happens…but about the trust you're given."

A pause, and then, "Do you trust me?"

The youth took in the question, and craned his head to the left, "Do _you _trust me?"

There was another pause before he gave a definite nod. "Yeah. I always have."

* * *

His kisses were feverish, hot and warm and wet all over his neck. Ken grunted a little when he was pressed further against the siding of the inn, well-aware that the man's touch was going to bruise . He struggled against it momentarily, finding it entirely difficult to gather his strength when the redhead's mouth was traveling alongside the side of his jaw, dipping downwards onto his neck, only to drift upwards and claim his mouth with hungry, needy kisses. The uncharacteristic outpour made him weak at the knees, and he gripped at the man's biceps, pulling himself up with effort.

"Aya—" his question was swallowed before it was fully voiced, and Ken could feel the redhead's fingertips slowly drifting from their perch on the wall, downwards onto his shoulders. His hands, like the rest of him, were ablaze. Aya was as silent as ever, his touches smooth and soundless, his mouth the only indication that he was indeed there. Ken closed hi s eyes to it all, basking in the sensations that flooded through his body, until he felt the redhead stop. "What's…what's wrong…?"

Aya's breathing was shallow, and his forehead was pressed against his. His fingertips had stilled at his hips, and his body was a mere centimeters away. He almost groaned at the cruelty of it all. "The owners are coming soon…"

* * *

Youji turned at the sound of the door opening, beer at his lips, and took in the site of his two comrades. They were flushed—though, he doubted from anger, and Ken looked as though he'd been attacked by some sort of ravaging feline.

A pale blond brow quirked in amusement, "So, how was it, Kenken?"

"As good as it would be if you were to jump Omi."

What a way to shut a guy up.

Omi waved both men away, offering Aya a pleasant smile as he stood toward the refrigerator once more. "Beer or soda?"

"Soda."

"Ken?"

"Beer."

"Give him a soda, Omi. He's not allowed to drink."

Ken glared. "Why the hell not! Just because you think—"

"You're on medication, Kenken."

The fight in him died down. "So…we're heading back to the Koneko today?"

"Yeah."

"Thank God."

* * *

Somehow, Ken knew he was going to have to swallow his words. The moment they arrived at the Koneko, who should they find leaning against the metal grating than Manx, looking for all the world like a murderous maiden. "It's about time."

"There was traffic." Aya's tone was just as icy. If not more. Manx shrugged it off, gaze lingering a bit longer on the redhead, before stepping into the house. Aya's eyes narrowed. He hadn't remembered leaving the Koneko door open.

"Kritiker has found new leads on Schwartz—apparently the group has—"

"On _Schwartz?"_ Ken's tone was bordering on incredulity, "You mean to tell me that Kritiker has _somehow_ managed to get information on _Schwartz,_ even after _all_ of those times they mentioned the concept of _tagging_ Schwartz was impossible?"

Youji shifted in his seat, looking curiously towards Manx. The timing _was_ a bit awkward, he had to admit.

Manx glared, "Allow me to finish, Siberian?"

The youth shrugged, raising a brow and offering Omi a suspicious nod. "They've determined why it was that Siberian was intercepted at the park the day he was hospitalized."

Ken blinked. How the hell did they know about that, _anyway_? He turned chocolate eyes at Aya, wondering if it had been the redhead who had leaked the information and was able to discern an almost imperceptible shake of the head. A negative. It hadn't been Aya. Youji and Omi didn't know enough of the particulars to have been able to inform Kritiker. Or Persia. "Apparently, Oracle had a vision of _something_ involving Ken."

He could have supplied _that_ much. Kritiker's recon teams were really on a downwards slope.

"And, along that same tangent, there's been talk of kidnapping you."

You? Ken was suddenly aware of Manx's penetrating gaze, and snapped his eyes upwards. "Me?"

A nod. "You."

"But—"

Anticipating the question, the brazen woman waved the youth away, "It has something to do with what he saw; something threatening. And you, from what the agents understand, play a big part in that vision."

"But…"

"And Kritiker wants to figure out what."

* * *

"No."

"No what?"

"He can't do it."

Youji, despite himself, gave a grunt of agreement. "Nevermind the fact that he's sick—the mission is just pure insanity. There's no clear objective, outside of letting Ken get himself kidnapped. Purposefully. Which, knowing Schwartz, is _suicide._"

Ken bristled slightly, "I am here, you know."

"Yeah well," jade eyes focused on mocha ones, "I don't think we care much for your input on this one."

Ken opened his mouth, and promptly closed it at the blonde's look. "Ken…what happened out there?"

"What do you mean?"

"With Mastermind."

"Oh."

The brunette sighed, biting his lip in his trying to focus, and sank into the plush couch of the Koneko's basement. "I…I don't quite know."

"Ken?" That was Omi. His large blue eyes were wide and concerned. He offered him a weak smile.

"Youji—" once more, Ken turned towards the blonde, "Mastermind is _your_ sparring partner, usually…you know how it is—it's hard to distinguish…between what he says…"

"And what's actually happening. Yeah."

Ken nodded, "When we were there…I saw things—in my mind, that he said Oracle and him had both seen. Or rather…that Oracle had seen it, and had transferred him the vision. Something like that."

"And…?" Aya.

"And…it had them off balance—the vision made them doubt Mastermind's loyalty to a certain extent; it could go both ways, from what I figured. From what he was saying, anyway."

"Ken-kun? I don't really understand."

"It's like this: Oracle saw a vision he didn't like—for whatever reason. _Somehow_, and if that's even possible, their organization got wind of it…and thought two outcomes possible for their vision. Either Mastermind's a hero, or a traitor."

"And?" Now it was Youji. Aya didn't even wait for him to answer, he'd formed enough of a picture on his own.

"And, Oracle hasn't been led in on what Eszett thinks the vision means. Either way, and to Oracle's knowledge—and Mastermind's too—it probably means Mastermind's exploitation."

Omi nodded hesitantly, "Like a sacrifice?"

Aya gave an affirmative. "And Kritiker's mission is either prompted by their wanting to know what Eszett knows…or—"

"—Or been plotted exclusively by Eszett in an attempt to carry out the sacrifice."

Youji nodded at the redhead's final insight. "That's just too damn complicated."

"It could also be planned by Schwartz. A last attempt to stop the vision."

Omi glanced tentatively at the brunette still sprawled on the couch, deep in thought. "Ne…Ken-kun?"

"Yeah?"

"What was the vision?"

Tan cheeks burned crimson.

Youji raised a curious brow, "Was it _that_ entertaining, Kenken?"

"What was it, Ken?" It was Aya, again.

The brunette shrugged, looking away. "We were together."

"Who's we?" Ken doubted Youji's tone could've been less amused had he tried.

"Mastermind and me."

That bought him a few seconds of silence. "What were you doing, Ken-kun?"

Ken glared at the youngest Weiss, ready to tell him that was as much as he was going to hear, when he caught the sheer seriousness of Omi's glance. The boy was curious, but not so much for the sake of knowing, as for the sake of keeping him safe. "We were…_together_."

"I understood that much, Ken."

Once more, he bristled, "I'm assuming by all your faces that you'd like the particulars."

Three heads nodded.

"Fine."

* * *

He was antsy. He had just finished his story—embellished with as much detail as he could recall—and his comrades were silently contemplating his words. _"And he asked me what I was planning, and I told him we weren't planning anything." _

"So…Schwartz thinks we planned this?" Youji frowned a little and rubbed at his eyes, "But that makes no sense."

"It does," Omi paused, gathering his thoughts, before continuing, "It makes perfect sense. Ken's the best decoy. He's not one Mastermind would expect."

"What I don't think they realize is that…if they go through kidnapping Ken…they'd be setting themselves up _for_ that vision."

Aya nodded at the taller of the two blondes. "They're worried."

* * *

"This is all so complicated."

Omi gave a bit of a sigh as he climbed the steps to the Koneko, Youji a few paces behind. "I mean…_why_ would Kritiker even make Ken go? Just to gleam some information on Eszett? They'd expose _so_ much?"

"I don't know."

"It's not like you to say that."

Jade eyes crinkled at the edges at the laugh that followed. "I'm sure it isn't."

Omi pursed his lips together as they neared the top of the staircase, "It really isn't, Youji."

"When'd you stop calling me 'Youji-kun'?"

"A while ago," There was a twinge of melancholy in his voice.

"Why?"

"Because I don't think you're that much superior to me, that I should call you 'kun'."

Youji looked puzzled for a minute. Omi shook his head at the expression and smiled, "Verbal engineering precedes social engineering, Youji-_kun_."

_"I don't know what's holding you back. He's an excellent lover." _

"I guess you're right."

"I am?"

He nodded, "You're right about a lot of things."

The blue-eyed young man was suddenly curious, "Like what?"

"Like me."

"You? What about you?"

"I'm a stupid old man."

"You're not old."

"Thanks for correcting the stupid bit, too."

A wide smile encompassed Omi's lips, one that was softer than the ones he'd been sporting lately—one that wasn't teasing, nor seductive, nor flirtatious—one that was merely sweet and pleased. "I'm still not quite convinced you aren't stupid, Youji."

Somehow, it felt awkward to refer to him without that ever-present honorific.

* * *

_Oh, the plot is cleaning up--loose ends are being tied up, and hopefully, the story will so reach its climax (or would it be the downhill slop portion?) Review! Cmon. You know you want to. _


	16. Secrets

* * *

**_In Fear Of  
_**_The Weaver Atropos  
Chapter 16--Secrets

* * *

_

The next day found them all at the Koneko, overwhelmed by a week-deprived-bishounen-crazed-teenage-girls. The atmosphere was tense despite its normalcy, and Ken found he couldn't quite stand it. "I'm going upstairs."

"What! But you're on _shift_," Youji doubted he could have kept the whine from his voice should he have tried.

"And I damn don't feel like being on. Tell Aya I'm upstairs if he asks."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Shut up."

* * *

He wondered what it could mean. Mastermind's vision—his subsequent attack. It made very little sense in his mind…it lacked some sort of juncture. And how on earth did Schwarz expect to assuage the conditions by kidnapping him? It would only worsen the situation.

Ken sighed as he turned away from his window, dropping down on his bed like a sack of potatoes. He was weary—weary from his illness, and infinitely more from the news Manx had brought him. The last thing he needed was a homicidal team on his tail—all courtesy of Kritiker. And suddenly he remembered what he'd told Aya before he'd even run into Mastermind. About his leaving the team. Leaving Weiss.

It wasn't as though he had any sensible reason to stay; Aya had been right, Kritiker had no clue as to _what_ was afflicting him, and it was unlikely that they ever would, and—with that knowledge being his—they had no real method of blackmail to keep him on the team. He could disappear. Move away without a word. No more Kritiker, no more Weiss, no more flower shop—no more Omi, or Youji…or Aya.

He wondered if a life without his three other comrades was even possible. He'd become used to their constant presence—to Omi's nagging mothering, Youji's infernal pestering—Aya's silent appraisals.

Except they weren't silent anymore. Not after last night, anyway.

Ken squeezed his eyes shut as he groaned, spreading his arms about him on his bed. Aya had damn near attacked him the night before; all that mass of coiled, warm muscle had been pressed on him. And he'd be damned if he hadn't wished Aya had kept going.

He shivered a little at the open window, but ignored it nonetheless.

No, if last night had been any indication, the redhead's attentions would continue…and god knew he _wanted_ them to, but by that same token—it was all more than a bit unnerving. Aya had always been a sort of beacon to him—unattainable, platonic…invulnerable. And now, he was before him…and it was all…

Ken turned, groaning into his pillow as he closed his eyes. A near two weeks ago…a near two weeks ago he'd heard the redhead in his room…breathing shallowly, moaning, struggling against _some _desire that he hadn't seemed to be able to fulfill. And now _he_ was the one who couldn't even stand the thought of the tall, brooding redhead without some sort of illicit bubbling ciphering through his groin.

"Aya…" and he couldn't help himself…he couldn't help the roaming hands—the shuddering breaths—and his eyes were squeezed shut before he ever heard the voice answer.

Brown eyes shot open and Ken's body spun around so fast that Aya feared the boy's neck had snapped in the process. "A…Ay—Aya!"

He gave a nod, pale eyes taking in the scene before him—the unfastened jeans, the discarded belt—the burning red cheeks and the wild hair. "I…" the brunette looked about him as he spoke, running a shaky hand through his disheveled locks, rising up on the bed so that his hands supported the bulk of his weight.

"You're on shift."

"Yeah," Ken rolled off the bed, bouncing on the balls of his feet uncomfortably, "I'll be right down…I wasn't feeling well…"

"Omi's taking over."

"Oh?" Ken looked towards the redhead curiously, blinking a bit more than he normally would when his eyes met with lilac. He was all too aware of the fact that his jeans were still unbuckled and unzipped.

"Youji said you wanted to see me."

"About last night—"

A sort of emotion flashed in Aya's gaze, "What about it?"

Ken studied the man from behind his lashes, still a good five feet away, and watched as he dropped onto the very edge of his bed, strong fingertips bracing his fall. "I…."

He paused and took in a deeper breath, finding it entirely too difficult to focus when the redhead was sitting before him, expression open and receptive, hands folded in his lap, eyes blinking upwards at him. "I…"

"I…oh fuck."

A crimson brow rose.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_. I'm so _fucked_."

Aya took that as his cue. Rising, he approached the sputtering man—who had turned away—and wrapped his arms about him when he was near enough, "Are you?" and his breath was warm against the soccer player's neck.

It was hard not to melt against a body like that.

"Aya—?"

"What were you doing, just now?"

Ken felt himself swallow thickly, tensing just slightly as he pulled away. "N-Nothing."

But his cheeks burned even as he spoke. "You said my name."

"I didn't."

"You _did_."

"Why's Omi on shift?"

"Youji said you weren't feeling well….though, if _that_ were your reason, I can say you should be able to head back down to work."

His cheeks darkened. "Aya—"

"Yes?"

"_About_ last night…"

"What about it?"

Ken wrung his hands together, wincing a bit as he jostled his wounds, "Was that…?"

Aya continued looking at him, expression patient, waiting for him to voice whatever concerns he had. "Was that…serious?"

The redhead's eyes narrowed, "What does that mean, exactly?"

"Serious. Did you mean it?"

Aya seemed not to understand what he was referring to. "I don't understand."

"Why did you kiss me?"

"Because I wanted to."

"That's it?"

"What do you mean, 'that's it'?"

Ken shuffled about his room, gathering enough static electricity in his socked feet to power a generator. "I don't know."

Aya stood in one fluid motion, making his way toward him and pushing him gently until he was cornered against a wall. Why had he kissed him? Because he had wanted to…because he liked kissing him—because that kiss at the hospital had left him wondering—had left him hungry for the possibilities…there were so many reasons and none of them would voice themselves.

He pressed his mouth against Ken's, aware that the other was fixing an awkward expression at him, countenance uncertain, but it all fizzled into his subconscious when he felt the man's body relax against his, tight muscles pressed along his body—warm, hot, pulsating flesh fitting against him like a puzzle.

He opened his lips a little further, feeling the brunette sigh, and ground himself against the man's pliant body when this one threatened to pull away. Ken responded accordingly, pushing off the wall to meet his body halfway, kiss becoming sloppier—his actions less coordinated. Aya pulled away momentarily, achingly aware of Ken's open jeans, and kissed at the man's neck, the flesh there soft and warm against his mouth. He made his way upwards again, taking in Ken's lower lip, and felt himself lose himself entirely to feeling. And Ken's voice was a whisper in his ear, "Have you ever made love to a man, Aya?"

And he shivered as he remembered those same words, conjured by his mind in the time when Ken had been in the hospital. He buried his face in the soccer player's neck. He kissed there, suckling the pinkening flesh almost anxiously, until he was aware of Ken's hand, soft and steadying at his jaw, pushing him slightly away so that he could stare into his eyes. "Have you?"

There was a certain expression in those chocolate depths that was difficult to place. Ken looked torn between delusion and sensibility. His eyes were hazy with desire, his voice throaty, his entire body near trembling. He repeated the question when Aya drew near again, turning his face so that the redhead couldn't kiss him.

"No."

The admission made him blush a little—why, he had no clue—and he felt his mood change rapidly from desire to irritation, and he was about to pull away when Ken latched on to his bicep, pulling him gently forward. "That's good to know." There was an absent sort of smile on his lips.

Aya was unsure of what to make of that. Smiling a bit wider, he squeezed the redhead's hand as he pushed off from the wall, using his other hand to try and straighten his chocolate locks. "I should head downstairs."

"Ken?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you?"

"Have I what?" Ken studied him curiously, zipping up his jeans lazily, exhaling deeply.

"Have you ever had sex with another man?"

And his expression softened a little. "Yeah, I have."

* * *

He didn't know why he had asked. He had known. There had been Kase, after all.

Aya glanced at Ken from behind the checkout counter. The brunette smiled warmly at a departing customer, his skin pale, but rosier than it had been over the past few days. He was humming a little to himself, tapping his free hand against the opposite side counter in a click-clack of nails.

He must have felt the pressure of his glance, because brown eyes blinked up, meeting with his, and a different sort of smile flitted over his lips. And suddenly, Aya realized that Ken seemed a lot older than he was—a lot more jaded. And it was as though Aya were the inexperienced teenager dating the older guy. He insides quivered a little at the analogy.

"Hey," Ken was at his side, shoulder just barely brushing against his.

"Hey," Amethyst eyes looked curiously about, taking in the chatting girls to the left and the middle-aged couple admiring the daisies to their right.

"I'm gonna go out a little bit later. To soccer practice."

Alarmed eyes turned in his direction, "Soccer? You can't—"

"I'll be okay. Besides," Ken looked toward Youji, "there aren't a lot of customers today, and Youji's on shift."

"Ken—"

"And…I was thinking I could go by Kase's grave later." And the voice was quieter, the real intent for his leave revealed.

"Ken?"

The brunette shrugged a little, "I don't…I haven't been…" chocolate eyes blinked up at him, "I have to sort out some things in my head."

He nodded.

* * *

Ken coughed a little and brought his jacket closer to his body. He hadn't visited Kase in the longest time. It wasn't something he'd made a habit of. He only visited his friend's grave when he was troubled. As much as the others would be loathe to understand, Kase had been his friend, and he was a consoling presence sometimes. He knew a lot of his secrets—his fears—and even if he had betrayed him in the larger picture, he'd never let loose those childhood secrets. He was grateful for that. "Ne, Kase…" he prodded a little at the dirt around the grave, "How are ya?"

* * *

"That's five-hundred-and-fifty dollars," Omi looked up proudly from the cash register and beamed at Youji, "that's more than we've made a day in a long time."

"We should tell Aya. He'll be thrilled. Bastard might even give us a day off."

Omi rolled his eyes and smacked the older man on the arm, "Don't call him that, Youji-kun."

Youji found himself leaning into the touch and sighed when the other let his hand fall slack. "Ken-kun's a lot better, ne?"

"Yeah," Youji mussed the youth's hair and moved away. He slid to the floor and leaned his body against the counter.

"Youji-kun?" Omi mimicked the action, "What's wrong?"

Jade eyes took in the sight of him—of that hideous orange apron that hid a firm, supple body—and softened. "I'm all right."

"You always say that."

"I mean it."

"You don't. You're doing that weird thing with your eye."

Omi huffed slightly and turned away, "Are we back to this again?"

Youji's expression softened, "Back to what?" his fingertips reached out and wrapped about the young man's chin, pulling his face in his direction. Bright blue eyes evaded his gaze. "Back to you thinking I don't know anything."

"Where'd you get that idea?" his voice was whispered, his breath caressing at his lips.

"From….from what you just said—"

"And what'd I just say?" his face was even closer then, and he was inspecting the shorter blonde almost in amusement, taking in the fluttering lashes and trembling lips.

"That…"

"Hmm—?" He skimmed the young man's lips with his own, pressing down ever so slightly, feeling the other lean into him, the warmth of his mouth a welcome one. He could feel Omi's palms coming to his face almost immediately, soft and smooth, and was vaguely aware that the youth was climbing atop him, lean legs folded beneath him as he settled on his lap.

"Omi?" he pulled away momentarily, taking in the sight of the blonde's ruffled hair and puffy lips. The bundle in his lap was a comfortable one; he was heavy, just as any other man would have been, but he was firm muscle and sinuous heat. The young man bent forward, nuzzling at his neck, lips teasing at the skin there. Where he'd learned that, Youji could bet to wager, but the feeling was a nice one—warm and relaxing…and…

He sucked in a deeper breath when he felt Omi's hand drift down, pausing at his abdomen and drifting backwards to wrap his arms about his waist, all the while kissing at his neck. Dexterous fingertips undid the clasp on his work apron, pulling away to bring it over his head and off his body. And he was hot, his skin sensitive, and he could barely make out the fact that they were sprawled on the floor of the Koneko, windows open for everyone to see, the dark of night no doubt making them stand out even more to passerby. "Omi—" he pulled away, "Omi…"

The young man paused, looking towards him curiously, his expression suddenly wary, as if pondering at whether he'd done something wrong. "The windows are open."

"So close them."

And his voice was unlike anything Youji'd ever heard before. It was insolent, irritated…and…it held an odd timbre to it that made him seem ages more experienced. Youji found himself torn between closing down the flowershop and going back to where he'd left off. He could see the other man was tense—wired—and was unsure of how exactly things were going to turn out. Before he had much sense to get to actually locking the door, Omi was already pulling the metal sheeting over the shop, movements jerky, annoyed, and violent. In all but five minutes the shop was closed and ready, and Youji hadn't moved a single muscle. He stared at the shorter man uncertainly.

It was odd, feeling intimidated by Omi. The younger man hadn't ever been anything but congenial and caring. And now, suddenly there he was, desire evident on his face—if not in his body language—waiting for _him_ to make the first move.

"Where's Aya?"

It could have been the very first time he found himself trying to change the topic when presented by sexual opportunity.

"Out." The answer was curt.

And Ken was out, too. He'd been out since early that morning.

* * *

He'd followed him to the cementary. He'd been watching him from a distance for the greater part of two hours, and his stomach was churning unpleasantly with every passing minute. He knew it was ridiculous—being jealous of a dead man—and yet, he couldn't help himself. Ken trusted Kase—still did, apparently, even then—and Aya wasn't sure the brunette would ever trust _him_ that much. It gnawed at him. But most of all—

--it hurt.

He started moving even before he was aware, finding himself standing stiffly behind the young man, waiting for some recognition.

"I was wondering when you'd come over."

The voice was teasing, and brown eyes twinkled as they looked up at him. Ken coughed a little, turning back to the grave, and sniffled. He traced the engraved lettering tenderly, then gave the tombstone a resigned tap and stood. He hugged his jacket close to his body. "Let's go then."

He coughed again, nudging the redhead playfully when this one shot him an accusatory glance, and heaved a sigh. "Where to?"

Aya looked ahead, the diffused light of the post above just enough for him to make out the serpentine pathway. "We'll figure it out."

* * *

"He had another vision."

"Another one?"

A nod.

"What was it?"

"The same."

"What about Schulidich?"

"He's missing."

* * *

"Are you thirsty?"

Omi proffered two cans from the fridge, kicking the door closed with his right foot.

Youji gave a nod, eyes focused on the youth, feeling his throat dry when he very unwittingly scanned the other's body. The little smile Omi was trying to hide behind the upraised soda can was enough for him to figure the latter had noticed. "What are you doing tonight?"

Omi paused a bit at the question, then shrugged. "Nothing much. You?"

"We could go somewhere?"

Omi chanced another little smile, "Okay."

He reached for his jacket, setting down his cola, and brushed up against Youji as he walked past. "Where're we going?"

"Where do you wanna go?"

"I don't mind."

They ended up walking without any real destination in mind, Omi's teeth chattering as he pulled his jacket tighter about himself. He'd really gotten the weather wrong. "The park's near here."

"The fountain's finally running."

Omi smiled. The local park had—in its day—been quite the sight, complete with a water fountain, café, and poet's corner. With time, it had deteriorated into little more than a patch of grass and trees. The fountain rarely ran. When it did, the park was usually flooded with a flurry of activity. "There's no one around, though."

Youji shrugged, "Must not know about it."

The young blonde sighed, "…I wish Ken and Aya were here."

"Do you?" Youji nudged the blonde a little with his shoulder, feeling the coolness of the other man's body seep into him. "You're cold."

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

* * *

Ken hummed a little under his breath, feeling his heart jump when the redhead's pale fingertips brushed slightly and unintentionally against his own. They had been walking for the better part of an hour, shoulder to shoulder, and Ken had figured by Aya's purposeful strides that he redhead had a specific destination in mind.

"The stars are out."

Aya nodded, "That's supposed to breathe good fortune."

Ken chuckled despite himself. "Never took you for superstitious.

"You never took me as much as anything." The words were rough, but the tone wasn't near as accusatory as Ken would have thought it would be. He nodded instead, knowing that Aya was right.

Ken kicked a stone as he walked, keeping to that melody when they fell into silence once more, and heaved a heavy sigh. Aya glanced at him from behind his fringe, "You always sing that."

"I don't sing."

"Hum, then."

The brunette smiled vaguely, "It's just some song."

"Do you know which?"

"Does it matter? But no, I don't."

* * *

"You hear that?"

Omi had heard the sound, but hadn't made much of it. "It's just people talking."

"The voice sounds familiar."

Before Omi had a chance to do say anything more, the taller man was already leading them toward the source, his milky white fingers tight around Omi's wrist.

The talking pair ceased as they heard them advance, and Omi looked past a tan redhead to focus on a pair of ice-blue eyes framed by the darkest ringlets of black he remembered. "Hisa."

He hadn't seen him since that night. He had wanted to, but something had always kept him back—something had always kept him from seeking him out. "Omi."

The voice was as soft as he remembered, a tad deeper, maybe. Hisa turned his eyes on Youji, "Youji."

Omi seemed a little confused. "You know each other."

An absent sort of smile graced the brunette's features, "He paid me a visit."

Omi turned towards the taller blonde, but this one was focusing on the guy sitting beside Hisa, "This isn't the guy I saw you with last time."

Blue eyes darkened. Hisa let his gaze slowly roam towards Omi. Had Youji told him?

"I'm Omi," the small blonde extended a hand and introduced himself to the sitting man.

"Christian."

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah. Same here."

"This is Youji."

Youji offered a nod.

"I'm sorry," Omi took a backwards step and smiled apologetically, "We just barged in here. Sorry for interrupting—"

Christian smiled absently, "It's okay."

"It was good seeing you again, Omi."

"Yeah. It was. Say hi to Ichi for me."

Omi pulled his jacket tight around him as they walked away, still a little spooked at having seen Hisa with so little psychological preparation.

"You never told me you went to see Hisa."

"I did."

"Did you really?"

Youji nodded, "You were angry at me. Maybe that's why it didn't register."

"Ah," the youth shrugged.

"Did it bother you? Seeing him with another guy?"

Omi smiled absently, "The truth?"

"You could lie if you really want to."

A soft chuckle escaped the smaller blonde's lips. "I'm not good at lying, either way. But honestly…it didn't."

"No? You weren't jealous?"

"I don't think I have a right to be."

"That didn't answer the question."

Omi kicked at a pebble in his path and heaved a bit of a heavy sigh. "Maybe there was _something_ I felt. A little uncomfortable nip. We're all so selfish aren't we? We think we're the only ones that can fulfill others."

"It's not an uncommon sentiment." Youji was finding it difficult not to twine his fingertips around Omi's. His hand was a few centimeters away, and their palms grazed occasionally as they walked.

"But it's a selfish feeling. Not one of pain or heartbreak. I've felt heartbreak before," here the young man paused and stared longingly at the taller blonde, "That thing with Hisa now…was more nostalgia."

"Ah."

Omi smiled again, laughter threatening to fall from his lips, "You're not saying much tonight."

"About Hisa you mean?"

"I suppose."

"What's there to say? I'm not exactly on the best terms with the guy, even if he did help me realize certain things."

"Oh?"

"It's a secret."

"I bet it is."

Omi stretched his arms above his head and stared at the sky, cradling the nape of his neck in his arms as he walked haphazardly forward. "How was your first time, Youji?"

"In general?"

The blonde paused in his walking and turned blue eyes on Youji, "What?"

"I was with women before I began to entertain men."

"Oh…well…I guess—both?"

Youji smiled, "My first time with a woman…I was young. A lot younger than you are. Maybe fourteen? I was a stupid kid. She was older than I was. I just remember feeling…incredibly inept. As though I were a horrible lover. I think she faked an orgasm."

Omi reddened around the ears, but laughed nonetheless. "And with a man?"

"I don't think he faked it."

"Youji-kun!"

"Back to the kun already?"

Omi smiled and let his hair fall into his eyes.

"It was messy, too. I was drunk," Youji shook his head when Omi looked up at him, surprised, "No…you weren't drunk when you were with Hisa. You were numb. I was…drunk. Really drunk. I probably thought the guy was a woman or something. It was after Asuka died."

"And it was bad?"

"Well it wasn't heavenly."

The youth nodded, "Then why'd you keep with it?"

"Because I don't think…I could—after Asuka, that is—see women the same. I don't want a relationship with a woman. There was only one for me and that was Asuka. I can't compare her to another woman because there is no comparison. But men," Youji's eyes twinkled, "I think men are different."

"Ne…Youji…what's the difference?"

"The difference…women are soft—so soft. And they're…I can't quite explain it, but you feel the need to be gentle—and odd sort of feeling comes over you when you're making love to a woman…you want to be protective, and loving, but at the same time, you want to make her feel good just for you—you want her to remember you, leave an imprint…you want her to cry for you if anything happens. Men are stronger…they're rougher—maybe not intentionally…they're just innately different. It's weird to explain."

Omi nodded. "I get it."

"Do you?"

"Yeah…" Omi shoved his hands in his jean pockets, "I felt it that night, with Hisa."

He turned towards the jade-eyed man to find him studying him curiously, "Even when I kissed him…it wasn't—I didn't have to worry about him running away crying or freaking out if I accidentally touched something I wasn't supposed to."

Youji chuckled. "Did you like it?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean it the way it sounds."

"Pleasure's always welcome, isn't it?"

"You don't sound convinced." The two stopped as the pedestrian lights blinked red, a blaring crimson hand demanding that they stop and let the oncoming traffic come through.

They'd had this conversation before, used the same words even…but it was different this time. There was no anger, no bitterness.

"My body liked it."

"You still don't sound convinced."

The light blinked to yellow, and the 'walk' sign sparkled amiably.

"It was a different experience. He was…sweet, and gentle…and it felt good in ways I didn't know touching could feel good. But it felt wrong. Not wrong in the whole—oh, I shouldn't be doing this…but…wrong as in—it didn't feel like as though it were supposed to have happened. Tell you a secret?" He blinked bright blue eyes toward the blonde.

"Yeah?"

Youji took his hand absently as they crossed the street, tugging patiently so that they could pass before any more cars approached.

"I think I was crying."

"Crying?"

Youji had stopped dead in his tracks, jade eyes wide and concerned. "Did he hurt you?"

Omi looked away, a sad sort of smile on his face, his cheeks burning even then. "I hurt him if anything."

"Oh."

Youji'd understood what he'd meant. What he'd been implying.

"Wanna know another one?"

"Shoot," he squeezed the boy's hand encouragingly.

"I was thinking of you the whole time."

* * *

_Youji says: "If you review, I'll pay back the favor."_


	17. Different Perspectives

* * *

**_In Fear Of  
_**_**The Weaver Atropos**  
Chapter 17--Different Perspectives

* * *

_  
Aya regarded Ken, a soft look in his eyes. "You want to head back yet?" 

"No. Not yet." The brunette shifted closer to Aya, closing his eyes and inhaling his essence. "I want to remember this."

Aya hesitated at the comment, frightened at the finality of the statement. "I want to remember it." His arm found his way about the smaller youth and he closed his eyes, resting his chin on the brunette's chocolatey locks.

"And then there were two…kittens."

Startled amethyst eyes blinked open and Aya's arms tightened about Ken as he realized who stood before them. Mastermind, looking more dangerous than usual, stood against a tree toward their right, and Crawford was poised directly before them, gun arm outstretched.

"Siberian, up."

Ken hesitated, unsure whether he would even be _capable_ of extricating himself from Aya's grip, and when he tried, he felt Aya's hold tighten all the more. "Oh now, Abyssinian," it was Mastermind, "I'm sure you've had enough time to play with the kitten."

Standing and bringing the brunette up with him, Aya glared and shoved Ken clear behind him. "What do you want?"

"You know very well what we want. Hand him over."

Aya cursed the absence of his katana. A leer spread across Mastermind's face. Feral emerald eyes sparkled maliciously. "Hand to hand combat, Abyssinian?"

"What are you trying to achieve? Bringing him closer to you will only make your visions happen."

Aya's breath caught a little when he felt Ken's hands curling about his back, fingertips steadying in their very presence. He could feel the youth's forehead pressed to the juncture of his shoulder blades, his breathing short. "Don't Aya…They're armed."

"There won't be a chance for them to happen once he's eliminated," Crawford's tone was crisp, and his intent near blatant.

"You're not being logical," Aya's voice was strained, and his right hand was clenched to the point of drawing blood, "what could you gain from it?"

"Step aside."

Though silent, Aya made it clear that he had no intent of moving.

Crawford tried again, "Step aside, Abyssinian."

When Aya did nothing, Ken groaned inwardly, hating the redhead's stubbornness for what it made him do. He could see Mastermind approaching, gun held loosely in his grip in an obvious show of his lack of need for it, and a sudden terror gripped Ken at the very depths of his gut.

Closing his eyes and wishing Aya'd forgive him for it later, Ken raised his hand and brought it sharply down at the redhead's neck. Aya was aware of the swish of air, and he realized what Ken was doing a second before he had time to react, and with a certain feeling of horror he felt his body loosen and his eyes flutter shut.

Schuldich watched the exchange curiously, well aware that there had to be a measure of _something_ going on between the two men, given how they had found them, cradled against one another. Still…he wasn't used to the self-sacrificing kind of interaction he had witnessed. He sneered a little. Weiss.

Ken glanced up in time to catch Mastermind's expression. He turned back to the unconscious redhead on the floor before shifting his gaze back to hazel eyes. "Let's get going then."

* * *

Youji frowned, glancing at his watch and scratching idly at his cheek, "…Maybe it's not the smartest thing for me to do," he paused, "…and that's assuming they're carrying on quite—physically—but, I'm still a bit worried."

Omi's blue eyes sparkled anxiously, "They should have called."

"You didn't, when you were with Hisa." It was a soft reminder, but Omi could hear the bitterness behind it nonetheless. He chewed on his lip, not wanting to lash out in defensiveness. It was true, after all.

"Their cell phones are out of range."

"You sure? They didn't just turn them off?"

"No. I'm positive. Aya, at least, never turns his off. And it's not his voicemail that I get."

Youji's frown deepened, and he licked his lips apprehensively. "Should we go looking for them?"

Omi gave a glance at his watch, "…Fifteen more minutes. Then we go."

* * *

Ken studied his captors curiously, quite well aware by part of Manx's briefing on why he'd been captured. Still, his reception had been a little less involved than he'd imagined. He'd expected at _least_ a good beating. It seemed Oracle was too preoccupied by other things. Ken blinked mocha eyes toward the redhead sitting at the far side of the room.

"Guard your eyes, Siberian." It was Oracle, and his tone was frigid. He was standing as a barrier before Mastermind, a buffer to Ken's curiosity and interference. He readjusted his glasses thoughtfully. "What are you planning?"

The brunette glared and jerked his head toward Mastermind, "…Ask him. He can read my damned mind, can't he?"

Oracle didn't looked pleased, though Ken was bemused to note that there was a slight twitch to Mastermind's lips.

"You're not behind this, are you?"

"What?" Ken was startled by the comment, which seemed more a sort of absent remark than anything else, and let his eyes show his evident confusion, "…what's the point of having _him_ around if he doesn't ever get around to reading minds?"

Oracle said nothing.

Ken shifted a little, frowning as the binding cut into his wrists, and glared. His stomach was aching the slightest bit.

With a severe look to Mastermind, Oracle left the room.

"It still hurts."

It was an idle a comment as ever, and Ken wondered vaguely why Mastermind didn't approach. He remained sequestered on the opposite side of the room, seemingly frightened by the possibility of coming closer. "It doesn't." He'd be damned if he acknowledged a weakness to an enemy.

"Crawford thinks you might not be lying."

Again, Ken frowned at the forfeit of information. He watched as Mastermind's eyes toured the room, thoughtful. He was quieter than he'd ever been, and the brunette wondered vaguely at when the man would approach with a sexual quip. He never did. "He thinks it might be them."

"Them?" Damn his curiosity.

Mastermind hesitated then, as though unsure of whether or not to reveal the information.

"You mean Eszett."

A feline smile that was more like the German graced his lips, and he gave a nod. It quickly turned bitter. "Eszett." He paused, and then, "That thing that you have, tell me about it."

"No." There was definitely something amiss.

Mastermind frowned, and he tapped his shoes impatiently, unused to his lack of movement, "I can't see it in your head."

Ken made to rub at his forehead then, marveling at the invasion of privacy, and was courteously reminded of the ropes at his hands. "See what?" he growled, blowing at his bangs to get them out of his face.

"See your betrayal. It's not there at all."

"Crawford is Oracle?"

Mastermind ignored him, "…if Eszett had been the only ones to see it…but Crawford saw it, too."

Despite his better judgement, Ken studied the redhead skeptically, "Can't those old bastards fake those things?"

The German seemed startled by Ken's sudden intervention. He realized, a bit bemusedly, that the brunette spoke in tangents to his mind. He didn't necessary think about he was saying before he said it. Mastermind had a hard time anticipating where he was going with his thoughts.

He considered the man's question nonetheless. He and Crawford had certainly considered the fact. Eszett were capable of many things. They had powers stronger than all of Schwarz. Still, Crawford had said the vision was incredibly real. He'd even felt the effects of it. He frowned, "…It's capable telepathically. But…I don't see how Brad would see it if he weren't sleeping. And he's aware when someone reads his mind."

_Brad Crawford_. Ken made a mental note.

_And Fujimiya Ran, Kudou Youji, Tsukiyono Omi, and Hidaka Ken. _

Mastermind fixed emerald eyes wordlessly on him. The truce was a silent one.

"Tell me about the blood."

* * *

Omi and Youji walked briskly through the streets, Youji shivering at the cold night air. Omi was at his side, jogging a little to keep up with the man's longer strides, fiddling nervously with his zipper. He wondered a bit at where they were going—Youji was leading—and pressed quite unconsciously into the blonde's side. The night air was chilling.

* * *

"The symptoms seem familiar somehow." Schuldich studied Ken slowly, coming closer despite himself, his emerald eyes bright and his lips drawn in a soft frown, "…Really familiar."

Ken looked up at the man, expression wary, and watched as Mastermind dropped to ground beside him. The man still looked decidedly skeptic, but he was just as hesitant to disregard Ezsett's possibly culpability.

Just as suddenly as he'd dropped down, Schuldich rose fluidly, stepping away quickly and pacing, "Help me out here, kitten."

Ken was silent, not sure exactly how he was expected to do that.

"When did they start?"

"…They've always been there."

"Always?"

The brunette hesitated. He wasn't sure if he could answer that with complete and utter certainty. Mastermind frowned a little. He tried again, "_Always_?"

"Well…" Ken squirmed a little in his binding, letting his bangs fall into his eyes, "…after I turned twelve or thirteen. Fourteen. Around there."

Mastermind studied him quietly. "Thirteen or fourteen."

The German remained silent for a few moments, taking in the sight of the man before him. Then, softly, almost frightfully, "…are you familiar with Rosenkreuz?"

The brunette quirked a brow at the name, familiar somehow, but otherwise entirely foreign. He shrugged, licking at his chapped lips and turned away. "What about it?"

"The mother cats haven't been protecting their brood."

"What?"

"Kritiker is slacking."

Ken glared. _That_ was certainly some news. Mastermind raised a brow at Ken's reaction. "You're aware of it then?"

"Of what?"

"Kritiker's…suspicious behavior."

Ken glared again. "Aren't you supposed to be separated from me?"

A fine orange brow rose, "…I take it you don't want that vision to come to fruition?" Mastermind bent at the knee, so that he was nose to nose with Ken, "…it really wouldn't be _that_ bad, kitten."

Ken jutted out his chin in defiance, "…Rosenkreuz. That's German. Rose Cross."

"Brilliant, kitten," Mastermind stood sinuously, rolling his neck wearily, "Does _that _name ring a bell?"

_Not particularly_. Ken chewed on his bottom lip, running the myriad of Kritiker and Weiss directives he had been on the receiving end of for the past three or four years. There had been Kreepers, and Liott, and Schrient, and Schwarz…and Eszett even…but Rosenkreuz?"

Mastermind, in the meantime, was studying the Weiss kitten before him with a keen eye. The brunette was relatively easy to read—even by amateur standards—and he wasn't the type to control his thoughts or their broadcast. He didn't have to worry about him spouting off some lie or other. He was too clear for that. He was more intrigued by the recognition the name had triggered in the man. Rosenkreuz. It was a relatively well kept secret. Not many heard of it unless they had been behind its doors, and even then—few dared to speak of it. Mastermind frowned.

He wondered where Crawford had gone off to. He suspected the man was nearby—could feel him radiating, which was uncharacteristic in itself—but he was partly glad he had left the room. Siberian wouldn't've felt as open to conversation with him in close range. Brad was intimidating.

"I think—" Ken paused, "…I think I heard it once." That was all he would say. He wouldn't dare explain _where_ he'd heard it. He figured the telepath would know anyway, and he wasn't about to go betraying Kritiker intelligence even if they were a bunch of nearsighted bastards.

"Cute."

"More than once, I heard it."

He'd heard it during his recruittal. Manx had mentioned it briefly. A sort of absent mention. Which—in hindsight—seemed a pretty dangerous move. Handing over that sort of intelligence information to a new recruit—however trustworthy they might seem to be—had its risks. Persia had been the other to mention it to him. There had been other agents in the room at the time, none of which had seemed all that extraordinary. But…it all seemed vague for some reason. As though it had been a dream—and, to be honest, he wasn't quite sure it wasn't all just a figment of his imagination.

"How vague is it?"

Ken started. He glared a little at the redhead for good measure and turned away. It was a sort of liquid memory. Smooth in some parts, and choppy and confusing in others. He'd gotten drunk once and only once, and it was that same odd feeling of remembering and second-guessing. But he knew he hadn't been drunk for his recruittal, and he sure as hell knew that Persia had mentioned it. He remembered that clearly. He remembered because there had been so many men around the room and he had felt an innate instinct to bolt. He'd controlled it, because he'd had no other choice, but his skin had curled and his insides shivered. He hadn't liked those people. Not at all. He didn't even remember what the meeting had been about.

Schuldich, meanwhile, was warily twisting at his bandana. Repeated mentions of Rosenkreuz. And that illness. Those symptoms. They all rung a bell somewhere in his head. And he knew the feeling Siberian was describing. That murky, cloudy, chalky sort of memory, where nothing was natural or free-flowing; where everything seem unlikely and muddled. He'd felt that sort of thing near daily at Rosenkreuz. Before Brad, that feeling had been a part of his life.

"Youji-kun."

The blonde turned, seeking out bright blue eyes in the relative darkness of the park. "Yeah?"

"I think I see someone over there," He pointed, his thin arm outstretched, and looked at Youji as his green eyes locked on a slumped form a few feet from them.

The taller man nodded, approaching slowly, fingers already twitching for his wire, when he spotted the tell-tale red locks. He paused altogether before springing forward. "Aya!"

Schuldich paced. He wasn't sure how much he should divulge, exactly. He was still sitting with his enemy. Technically.

Ken was aware of the pair of emerald eyes that were staring almost fixedly at him, even as Mastermind paced. His gaze was sharp and piercing, intimidating in its unwaveringness, and Ken had to make a conscious effort not to shrink back. "Well?"

"Well what?"

* * *

_Another student had fallen ill. It was a bit of an odd occurrence at the school. The faculty went out of their way bolstering their students to keep them from disease. They had all been vaccinated and put on prevention regiments ranging from the most mundane vitamins to new, relatively untested technology. He'd never been ill. Not since he'd been brought in, anyway. And neither had any of the people he'd known. _

_There was Crawford, for one. And that man was always in pristine condition. And the others in his block were fine. Excellent specimen. They had to be in top condition to undergo training at Rosenkreuz anyway. Which was part of the reason why the entire scenario was so odd. _

_Schuldich trailed absently behind Crawford, following the older man from a few paces back, obstinately ignoring the dull pulsing at his temples. "Crawford?"_

_No answer. He figured that was invitation enough to continue, "…What do you know about those students?" His accent was still thick on his tongue—thicker than it'd be in the years to come, and Crawford paused a moment to make sure he'd understood the redhead correctly. He hesitated, not sure what he was allowed to say, and pressed his lips tightly together. "Not much."_

_Schuldich raised a brow, pressing a little into the man's side, knowing it would annoy him and relishing the fact that he'd do nothing even if it did. Crawford was tight against him and he yawned in loyal feline imitation. He muttered something under his breath in German and snaked an arm about Crawford's arm. _

_The American hesitated momentarily before shaking him off. Then, very quietly, so that only he could hear"…They've been losing blood. It's all over the bathrooms."_

_Schuldich raised an interested brow, "…How quaint."_

_Crawford looked irritated. _

"_How is it transferred? Physical contact?" the redhead smiled almost lewdly, "Sexual contact?"_

_Honey eyes narrowed imperceptibly, and a pale hand adjusted immaculately placed glasses. "Hardly."_

"_Oh?" Schuldich tangled his arm about Crawford's once more, enjoying the contact and knowing Brad would allow it now that they were out of sight. _

"_Students have been…infected by more… sinister means."_

"_Eszett?"_

_There was a sharp glare thrown in his direction for mention of the name. Schuldich grinned almost maliciously at the attention._

_

* * *

_

"Where's Ken?"

It was amazing how those were the first two words from the redhead's mouth. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were glazed, but he was as alert as anyone who'd been unconscious could be.

"What do you mean, Aya-kun? We though Ken-kun was with you?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

Youji's hand very unconsciously sought Omi's. "Where?"

"Schwarz took him."

"Where's Balinese?"

Ken looked up curiously at the almost absent question, blowing a little at his bangs to get them out of his face. Youji? What did Youji have to do with anything?

He shrugged a little. "Don't know."

He really didn't. Last he'd figured, he'd been at the shop with Omi. Why would Mastermind care, anyway?

He studied the redhead out of the corner of his eye. Mastermind was acting strangely. There was a speculative gleam in his eye that replaced the usual suggestive glance and his pouty lips were drawn into a deep frown.

Crawford studied Schuldich as he exited the room, eyes cloudy and contemplative. There was something going on in his head.

He didn't approach, since it wasn't his place. It was Schuldich who chased after him; it was the German who sought _his_ presence. It had never been the other way around. Soon, bright eyes fixed wordlessly on him. They were troubled and questioning. _I thought you were the only one._

Brad frowned inwardly at the comment. He had very little clue of what the redhead was referring to. He waited for the man to clarify. _I thought you were the only one who could take away the noise._

Crawford straightened slightly. The lithe German moved away, his hips shifting less than they normally would, his hands teasing at his bandana in that nervous gesture he hadn't seen in years. He followed the man despite himself, curiosity piqued, and stopped when Schuldich turned abruptly. His gaze was incriminating.

_I thought you were the only one that could take it from me._

He seemed almost pained. The face he was so used to seeing twisted in a suggestive leer was drawn and frowning.

_But Balinese took it away, too_.

_Brad had always been his solace. It was quiet all around. The control he exuded—the absolute 'rightness' of everything he did. Brad was an anchor. An anchor to his thoughts, and his body, and his actions. _

_He'd never found anyone who gave him that sort of quiet. Everyone else just added to the noise._

_

* * *

_

_Apologies on lateness. I thought I had already uploaded this portion. _


	18. Rosenkreuz

* * *

**_In Fear Of_**  
_**The Weaver Atropos  
**Chapter 18 -- Rosenkreuz_

* * *

Youji tapped his fingertips anxiously on the kitchen table. Despite his desperate urge to run out and find Ken, common sense told him searching aimlessly wouldn't do much good. There had to be a strategy—a plan. A look upwards told him Aya was near bursting at the seams. So much for a logical and level-headed leader.

"Why'd they take him?"

"That vision."

"…They're serious about it, then."

Omi pursed his lips in thought. "Maybe, we could propose a truce?"

"With Schwarz?" Youji scoffed, "I wouldn't trust those bastards on their deathbeds."

Omi frowned, "But aren't they _worried_? They'd do anything at this point. They're being reckless as it is—that's why they took Ken."

Aya paused momentarily, weighing the possibility. "We need to find their weakest link."

"Exactly. Berserker is out of the question."

"As is Oracle. He's too coldblooded for manipulation."

"…Prodigy?"

Aya shook his head no, "Too many variables."

"Then," Youji hesitated, "…Mastermind?"

Omi nodded emphatically, "Yes! He's the one most distressed at the moment—Oracle's level headed as leader, and Prodigy we don't know much of since he keeps a low profile, but Mastermind…Mastermind is predictable in his recklessness. And he has a weakness among us."

Aya didn't miss the meaningful glance Omi threw in the blonde's direction.

* * *

Ken tested his confines with a frown. Prodigy had made sure to secure him in such a way that he'd have no possibility for escape. He could almost breathe the tension radiating about him, seeing it in the way Mastermind tightened whenever Oracle entered the room, and in the way Berserker seemed almost curious about the same fact. So…that meant it wasn't normal behavior. 

He wondered briefly if…

_Mastermind._

Silence greeted his attempt at communication and he relaxed minutely. So that would mean that Mastermind wasn't—

_Siberian._

—monitoring him. Or not. _Can they hear us_?

_No._

Schuldich had reveled in pulling up his shields. It was his own little way of pissing off Crawford. The bastard could hassle him to his heart's content with his damned mental inquiries and commands, so long as they were connected, and—though he'd never really done it before—Schuldich delighted in severing the link. It was an effective means of hampering the American's plans. Without him and his telepathy, Crawford couldn't send Nagi or Farf to do his bidding as quickly as he'd like. And, though Brad would be apt to deny it, he hated dealing with _actual_ human interaction. He was damned antisocial. The bastard.

_Are they telepaths?_

Ken frowned. So no one could hear. Even Oracle was clueless. Mastermind's answering comment seemed reproachful, _It's not his gift, is it? Why should he enjoy its many 'benefits.'_

_Where are you?_

_Missing me already?_

Ken scoffed. "Hardly."

_Are you sure they can't hear us?_

_Not unless I want them to. _

Ken frowned a little. _They'll be coming to get me soon._

_And we'll be waiting._

Ken frowned a little at the thought. _You know I don't know anything about this plot—a manipulated vision was possible, you said. _

Schuldich snorted. _I don't doubt it in the least, kitten_.

_So? Why keep me here?_

His question was answered by silence.

* * *

Youji hesitated at the palm placed tentatively at his back. He turned, knowing who'd be there, and smiled reassuringly at the smaller blond. "Can't sleep?" 

Omi nodded at the question, rubbing weary eyes and yawning. "I'm worried about Kenken. I know they won't do anything to him…because they're worried for Mastermind—but…"

"I know," Youji mussed the younger man's hair as he took in the sight of the blond's puffy blue pillow. "We're turning into them, you know, what with you coming in here to sleep."

Blushing, but not disagreeing, Omi crawled into Youji's bed, smiling a little when he pulled him close. "It's different." Omi's voice was a bare whisper.

"Hmm? What is?"

"Being here with you. Like this."

Youji thought he'd chance pressing a soft kiss at the youth's nape. "Yeah?"

Tufts of Omi's hair tickled at his nose as he nodded, "Yeah."

"What'd you think it'd be like?" Curiosity had always been a weakness of his.

Omi frowned, not quite sure how to answer. "I've always known it, but…you're a lot more gentle than people give you credit for."

A rich chuckle tickled at his neck, and he realized suddenly just how close the older man was to him. "Crazy thought isn't it? My actually caring about something." Omi didn't know if it were intentional or not, but Youji's lips kept brushing against a sensitive little area at his neck every time he spoke.

"I've always known you care."

"Hmm…I think that's why I like you."

Omi blushed, curling the covers tighter about him by reflex. "Hmm…but why do you like me?" Youji's voice was sleepy, and it had returned to that lazy drawl Omi was more familiar with.

"There are lots of reasons for that."

"…I _am_ amazing, aren't I?"

Omi licked his lips before he began. "You're really considerate…and you're excellent at giving advice, and you're amazing at caring for other people."

"…You're hurting my ego."

"Hmm…? What?"

The youth propped himself up absently, the covers rounding his waist at his shift in position, and cocked his head alluringly at Youji. "I'm hurting your ego?"

"Well Omittichi…" he smiled, his hand tangled in the youth's hair once more, "…most people who find themselves in bed with me, usually have other things to praise."

Though there was a joking tilt to his voice, his eyes were serious, and Omi realized—through an innate sense of empathy—that Youji was looking for reassurance about his character. He wanted to make sure Omi understood who he was before he got involved.

Turning blue eyes downward, Omi smiled a little to himself. "I'm not saying…that I'm not attracted to you physically, because well—" here he looked up and met with the taller blonde's eyes, "…you know that I am. I love the way you walk and the way you flirt…and this is starting to sound a little ridiculous…but I like the rest of you, too." He paused before correcting himself, "I like the rest of you more."

"You've never thought of me that way before?"

"That way?"

Youji took in the sight of the youth before him; Omi was splayed on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, his hair tousled and mussed. "Have you never…" Youji leaned in close, his lips brushing at the youth's ear as he spoke, "…wanted to be with me, like _that_?"

Omi's cheeks darkened a few shades. He bit at his lip, making a point of looking away, and frowned when Youji's hand tightened at his chin, drawing his face so that his eyes couldn't help but take in the sight of him. "…Youji-kun…"

"Simple enough question. I won't be mad either way."

For a moment, Omi stared pensively into the blonde's jade eyes, wondering momentarily if it weren't obvious. For all his teasing games, Youji could be incredibly clueless sometimes. It really was no big surprise that all his lovers ended up hurting him one way or another. "I wouldn't have slept with Hisa if I hadn't."

Not the answer he'd had in mind. Youji had been hoping the youth would become flustered by the question, blushing and stammering until he was forced to silence him with a tender kiss. He certainly hadn't expected the uncertain eyes staring intently at him amidst a solemn expression. "I can't think of a day I haven't wanted to be with you, Youji-kun—" A faint blush colored at his cheeks, and Omi sat up to try and hide the flush in the darkness, "… all of you. Not just your body."

"I'm sorry."

"Hmm?"

Youji looked away, focusing his eyes on the blinking light to the far right of his room. He'd be damned if that stupid carbon monoxide detector hadn't kept him up whenever he tried to sleep. "For making you out to be a defenseless child."

"Hmm…" Omi smiled a little, surprising Youji by pressing a soft kiss at the corner of his lips. "It's okay."

It never ceased to surprise him, how perfectly Omi's body moulded into his own. He let his hands rest on the young man's hips, a little amazed at how adeptly Omi had managed to climb atop him, his lithe body pleasantly constricting. He certainly was a tease.

Youji grunted a little as he threw his weight, smiling once the youth was trapped beneath his own body. Omi stared upwards at him with a shy little smile, his pouty lips drawn slightly. The blond beneath him was small, granted, but his body was by no means, that of a boy. "_This_ is different." There was a speculative sort of sound to his voice.

"Different?" Youji nudged curiously at his cheek, "What's different?"

Omi wormed his arms free of Youji's grasp and wound them about the man's lower back. "You're heavy."

Youji didn't answer, kissing absently at Omi's neck. He suckled the soft skin there experimentally, still not familiar with the youth's preferences, and let his hands recapture Omi's. He was a desirable bundle of warmth—coiled muscle, smooth boyish skin, supple body.

"…So…I hear you're a great lover."

Omi's eyes snapped open. "What?"

Youji closed his eyes and kissed the boy deeply. He pushed upwards at his shirt, impatient and wanting to take in the sight of his pale flesh, when Omi sat up. He raised his hands expectantly above his head and waited for Youji to remove the item. Once that was gone, Youji's hands smoothed themselves over the entire expanse of the youth's torso. "You have a scar…" His voice was a whisper and his fingertips lingered on the smooth upraised welt running the entire width of the boy's lower back.

"Yeah…" Omi took in a deep breath, eyes fluttering slightly, "…from….from wire."

Youji paused. "Wire?"

"Yeah…" Omi shifted a little, pressing a chaste kiss at Youji's cheek, "…You're not the only one who specializes in that, apparently."

"How'd you get it?"

The smaller blond blinked open an eye with a frown, "…I got attacked. He wrapped the wire around me from the front, and he pulled to draw me in—and the wire cut in through my clothes."

Youji's voice was a bare whisper, "…It must've hurt."

Omi shrugged, "Don't really remember it much. It's not in a place where I can see it…so its not like I have a constant reminder."

"Hmm…." The jade-eyed man pressed his mouth to the boy's collarbone, suckling there gently. Omi's hands were at his hair, stroking the silky strands almost absently.

"Youji-kun…?"

"Hmm?" Youji pulled away momentarily, pressing his cheek to Omi's, waiting for him to continue.

The youth's hands had stilled at his nape, and he could feel the strength of his heartbeat through his proximity. Omi sighed, the sound soft amidst the silence of the room, "Why…did you do it?"

"Hmm?" Youji didn't quite understand what the youth was asking about. "Do what?" He pulled away.

Omi's eyes were turned away, and he shrugged a little, his naked torso illuminated scantly by the moonlight. "With Mastermind."

Youji's breath stilled. "…That…I don't really know. I know it sounds ridiculous—and, coming from me, I don't know how legitimate it is—"

"Shh…" Omi closed his eyes and buried his face in Youji's neck, "don't downplay your judgement."

The older blonde paused for a moment, unsure of how to continue, content in the warmth of the youth and not wanting to ruin the moment. "But…he understood me, and I understood him."

There was silence, and Omi was listening to him.

"As though…we understand why we do what we do. Why we—have those relationships. He's…_vulnerable_, Omi. I know it sounds—"

"I understand."

"—There's a sadness in him…an emptiness."

"…I understand, Youji."

"It's how I felt. How I've always felt."

The smaller blonde bit at his lip, feeling his throat tighten. He knew what Youji meant; he'd seen that same emptiness and vulnerability in the blonde a thousand times over. He'd seen how his insecurity manifested itself in lewd comments, and how his need for warmth took the form of careless sex. He had always been aware.

Youji was quiet for a few more minutes. "…I'm sorry."

"Hmm…" Omi smiled a little, nuzzling at the blonde, "you don't have to apologize."

* * *

Schulidich licked his lips. He was sitting at the edge of his bed, nervously wringing his hands together and wondering what the chances were. Sure, Kritiker had been having its share of misinformation fiascos, during which Weiss had been the most affected…but that didn't mean that they were _deliberately_ doing so, did it?

He frowned a little and tried to concentrate a little harder, missing the reinforcement Brad usually supported to his mental blocks as a result of the severed link.

Siberian didn't seem particularly surprised by the news of Kritiker's shortcomings. In fact, he seemed more than well acquainted with the group's suspicious behavior. Granted, Siberian hadn't afforded him much information as to _how_ things had gotten that way, or _when_ they'd even become aware of the fact, but…it was obvious to him that Weiss was working relatively outside of Kritiker's orders.

The redhead stood, pacing and rubbing anxiously at his elbow. Nagi was already in bed, and Farf had been set up in his quarters a while ago. The only one who'd still be up would be Brad, and Schuldich was sure the man would be 'playing guard' to Ken for the duration of the night. He bit at his lip.

He wanted another chance to speak to the brunette—to clear some suspicions from his mind.

* * *

Ken was roused unceremoniously from his uneasy sleep by two inconsiderate shakes. He opened his eyes blearily, just barely focusing on bright red, and almost called out to Aya before remembering where he was. He barely managed to correct himself. "…Mastermind?"

His voice was throaty and raspy, and he coughed when his words teased at his parched throat.

"That's right, kitten." The words were the usual—suggestive and irritating—but Mastermind's tone was urgent. "Now, quick, tell me about Kritiker."

Ken glared, torn amid staring incredulously at the redhead, and laughing at the man's gall. "That'd be espionage on your part, and treason on mine."

"Eloquent, and yet not amusing." Schuldich stood quickly, running his hands through his hair and pressing his forehead against the wall. When he spoke next, the urgency in his voice had marginally increased. "Here goes, Siberian. One time entry into Rosenkreuz. Be sure to tell me if any of this sounds familiar."

It had been a long time since he had brought anyone into his mind. The last time he had done so, it had been with Brad…and even then, the visit hadn't been a welcome one. But this—this was different. This justified Ezsett's suspicions. Siberian had been right when he'd said their actions were bordering espionage and treason, but he had gotten the order wrong.

* * *

_The institution had never placed much importance on aesthetics. The place was overwhelmingly austere, such that it inspired more of a sense of doom and resignation than it did motivation and hope. The walls were painted a bruising white and the floors were tiled in black marble. The place smelled of disinfectant. _

_At least, that was the case in the upper floors. The further down one made it, the grimier Rosenkreuz became, and the less sterile the whole place seemed. _

_The dormitories were located a few floors above the subterranean chambers in the west wing of the establishment. Students were divided by age and talent, and presumably by sex, though none of the regulations had ever really been all that monitored. In fact, aside from an unwavering rule of maintaining students of similar backgrounds and languages separated, Rosenkreuz cared very little. _

_Which wasn't to say they weren't hardhanded with their students. That was what the chambers were for. _

_Schuldich frowned a little, offering a sarcastic little bow to a passing instructor and wincing when this one retaliated mentally. Brad wasn't around. He had been scouted earlier that day for something or other. A meeting, he supposed._

_But Schuldich was more concerned about the blood_. _He'd already spoken to Brad about it, but the raven-haired man hadn't had much to say, outside of the fact that it wasn't his business, and that if he wasn't the one throwing up blood, he shouldn't worry about it._

_Which was true, but Schuldich was still curious. More so because…they were in Rosenkreuz. _

_Which meant that stupid little 'virus' going around wasn't so much of a virus as it was an experiment…which furthermore meant that, if he didn't want to suddenly end up bedridden with bright red walls to remind him of his predicament, he had better not offend anyone of the higher officials._

…_.Which would be hard, considering he had stumbled on Eszett files quite on accident. _

_He hadn't told Brad for fear of involving the man, since those damn bastards would be able to read him even with all his mental blocks in place. Still, it had been a worthwhile find. He had been searching for an avenue to escape, to be honest, and he had been sure he would have found it soon if he hadn't been distracted by those documents. _

_He was so deep in thought, that he didn't realize his transit until he heard an abrupt, violent retching sound. He paused then, looking around and realizing he had gone down a few floors past his room. His eyes caught a glimmering plaque to his right. Rosenkreuz Talent Analyse._

_Schuldich raised a brow. Talent Analysis? More like…talent exploitation and experimentation. He swallowed thickly, feeling a sort of panic begin to stifle him and turned quickly. He realized suddenly that he was standing in a puddle of blood. In a place assterile and pristine as Rosenkreuz, a puddle of blood was a sharp and stark and altogether sickening contrast. _

_He called out to Brad unintentionally. Not the smartest move in an institution were a good quarter of the students were telepaths, but…_

_**Brad…**_

_**Brad!!**_

_There was an urgency to his voice, and Schuldich cupped at his mouth, fearing he'd cry out aloud if he didn't receive an answer. He could still hear the retching clearly in the background, and the controlled chatter and analysis commenting on this in the near vicinity. _

_He took off running suddenly, his black polished shoes echoing sharply in the quiet hallway, the very bottoms of his uniform pants darkening to a charcoal black with the blood. _

_It hadn't been the first time he had been exposed to Rosenkreuz's experimentation; rather, he had undergone several of the institution's tests just fine. He wasn't particularly pleased about his predicament, which was partly the reason why he was plotting escape, but…he never liked wandering down past his room. _

_And he usually didn't. _

_Which, to him, implied someone had led him there with the intention of getting him caught. _

_Schuldich rubbed wearily at his eyes, his breathing still shallow and his heart pounding in his ears. Turning, he discovered woefully that his shoes had left a lovely crimson trail behind him, and he retreated quickly into a lavatory to wash these. No evidence. No evidence could remain that he had been down there, much less that he had heard the retching. Or stepped in it. _

_He called out to Brad more tentatively then, because he was afraid and the man had always been something of a solace. He received an answer this time, which meant Brad was out of his meeting, and let out a shaky sigh. _

_He was sure someone had led him down there on purpose._

* * *

"_So…it's an experiment, isn't it?"_

_Crawford tried to ignore Schuldich's obvious anxiety. The German had been like that since he had gotten back that afternoon, and it was hard for him to miss. "Did you see something?" it wasn't a question, but an assertion. _

_The redhead nodded fiercely, rubbing at his bandana. "Downstairs."_

_Crawford raised a fine, black eyebrow, "…You went?" There was a trace of wonderment in his voice. _

"_Not on purpose." And there was that voice again, that childish vulnerability that he hadn't seen from Schuldich in so long. Not since he had picked him up that day, outside the alley. _

_The redhead tried to muster up a suggestive smile, "…must've been a rough tryst. There was blood all over." His smile faded a little, "He was still throwing up when I got there."_

"_Who called you?"_

_Schuldich shrugged a little, averting his eyes, "…I think it was them."_

_Crawford stood abruptly, turning away and heaving a sigh. He removed his glasses and rubbed wearily at his eyes. His voice was a bare whisper, and his anger was palpable, "Again?"_

_Schuldich nodded, dropping onto Brad's bed and chewing on his bottom lip._

"_You're sure?"_

"_I wasn't even aware of it."_

_Crawford licked at his lips in an uncharacteristic move and looked about. "Listen. About today's meeting—"_

_Schuldich raised a brow and sat up, listening. It wasn't like Brad to volunteer information, much less with such zeal. _

"_Remember how I told you—the 'virus' was being transferred?"_

"_I believe you said 'sinister means.'"_

"…_They're infecting them."_

_Schuldich nodded. That much was obvious. "Is there any obvious criteria?"_

_Crawford paused, focusing hazel eyes on his charge. It wasn't like the redhead to be so level-headed. The German was smart, granted, and he was incredibly clever, but more often than not, he forgoed his abilities to play around with his victims. His focus only meant he was scared. _

"_None, from what I can see."_

_Schuldich nodded and opened his mouth to speak when Brad stood abruptly. "What's that on your pants?"_

_The redhead didn't bother looking. "The blood."_

"…_that's—"_

"_A lot, I know. There was more," he paused, wincing a little again at the pounding in his head, "…tons more."_

_Crawford pursed his lips together, "…Get out of those. They'll know you were down there if they see you."_

_Schuldich nodded, taking the pants Brad proffered from his own closet gingerly. "…what surprises me is…that they're still alive."_

"_Hmm?"_

"_That much blood loss isn't normal. Most people would die. But—there haven't been any deaths."_

_The redhead nodded in agreement. _

"_Your head still hurts?"_

"_A little, yeah." Schuldich smirked, the pants around his slip hips still unzipped and unbuttoned. "Thanks for the concern."_

_Brad approached silently, his brow furrowed and his forehead creased, before setting his hand on the redhead's head. He ruffled the fiery streaks absently before taking a firmer hold. The youth relaxed a little and closed his eyes. "Let me read you," the tall man asked. _

"_Hmm? What for?" The German had to struggle to keep his eyes open around Brad._

_He asked, but in the same moment brought Brad into his mind, letting him see what he had seen, and feel what he had felt. "Enjoying being inside of me?" he asked somewhat sardonically, enjoying the fact that he was currently quite literally in Brad's pants, and knowing he'd get a split lip if he ever said that aloud. _

"_Stay here tonight."_

"_Here?" Schuldich looked around curiously, "Why?"_

"_They'll try to lead you down there."_

* * *

"That memory of you in that recruital meeting of yours…it reminds of this." Schuldich studied Siberian with a frown. "I thought they would have given up on that experiment years ago."

"Maybe they have."

Schuldich raised a brow, studying Siberian's form in the darkness.

"I was infected when I was younger, wasn't I? It isn't necessarily a recent thing."

"But you weren't recruited until you were—"

"Eighteen."

Schuldich nodded. And by then he had already been suffering from the illness for a near five years. He wished he knew more about the method of infection. It was possible that the disease had leaked outside of Rosenkruez, but the redhead doubted it were contagious…otherwise Siberian's case wouldn't be an isolated one. In fact, if he remembered correctly, Schuldich was almost certain that infection required exposure to a variety of specific contagions, most of which were rare and had to be introduced specifically.

Those documents he had stumbled upon had borne the details of the experiment, but at the time, Schuldich hadn't been interested or aware enough of the gravity of the situation to pay much attention.

Still, it was a nagging sort of suspicion. Those men Siberian remembered at the recruital meeting, and that liquid feeling of his memory—those were near blaring markers of Ezsett and Rosenkreuz.

"You're not still connected to Rosenkreuz, are you?" the question was unnecessary, Ken knew, but, somehow he felt he should ask.

Mastermind didn't answer immediately, instead continuing in his pacing. "Did Kritiker…scout you? Before you were recruited, were you ever followed? Approached?"

Ken shook his head, "…No. Not that I know."

Mastermind bit at his lip, his pacing increasing. Ken had trouble seeing him clearly in the dark, the only things giving away his position being his wide emerald eyes and bright, crimson hair.

"I need to talk to Abyssinian."

"Abyssinian?"

"There are things he might know. Things he _knows._"

Ken's brow furrowed. "He knows?"

"He knows about the blood, doesn't he? It's only natural he knows other things, too…things you don't know—things he might not know are important."

The redhead paused. "We need to get out of here. They'll be here soon."

"Weiss?"

Mastermind's eyes narrowed, "Ezsett."

* * *

Could it be that more plot elements are revealed? Closure's upcoming 


	19. Revelations and Sacrifices

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos  
**Chapter 19 -- Revelations and Sacrifices_

* * *

Siberian had been heavier than he had anticipated. The man wasn't in so bad a condition that he was carrying him entirely, but the redhead was aware that he was shouldering a great deal of the brunette's weight—and he also knew, by other means, that this was largely unintentional. 

The two had been silent after their exchange, save for a few whispers here and there, but Siberian's mind had been running the equivalent of a marathon. Schuldich was sure he'd have a headache in the morning if the brunette didn't calm down.

"Listen—" his voice was smooth and quiet, "Brad should be outside here, guarding."

And then, there had been shock on Siberian's face, because somehow, he had thought that Schuldich was working _with_ Schwarz.

"Surprised, kitten?"

He didn't respond, but Schuldich heard the answer anyway. Readjusting Siberian's weight on his shoulders, the German licked quickly at his lips. "So we need to find another way out."

"How'd you get in here?"

"Irrelevant."

Ken focused curious brown eyes on emerald, "Irrelevant?"

A firm nod was all the answer he received.

* * *

Omi frowned a little at the static in his communicator. He was sure he had fine-tuned the settings correctly, and if he had, there should be no reason for the dull buzzing in his ears. "Abyssinian?" 

A few more bursts of static and Aya's deep voice cackled over the communicator. Even from his position, he could see Youji wincing.

"Bombay. Position secured."

Omi nodded, aware that Aya couldn't see him so much as hear him, and signaled the elder blonde his affirmative. "Building secured. Communications and electricity to be invalidated in—five minutes."

"Five minutes." _Abyssinian_

"Five minutes." _Balinese_

Right. Five minutes.

Omi chewed on his bottom lip and tried to steady the trembling in his hands. Five minutes. He turned blue eyes on the building before them, and wondered vaguely if they had guessed right. Given their limited resources and current inability to rely on Kritiker, chances of their inadvertedly stumbling onto Schwarz were slim. So this had been their only real option. He just hoped it worked.

* * *

"He's not here." 

Ken knew he was stating the obvious, but could think of little else to say. He turned chocolate eyes toward the taller redhead, in time to catch this one's thoughtful expression, and thought he might have detected a flicker of gratitude in Mastermind's eyes. "He knows what we're planning."

"Oracle? And he's letting us go, just like that?"

There was an odd sort of gleam in the German's eyes, "…seems that way."

He paused before focusing on Ken once again, "But we've got to hurry. They can only hold them off for so long."

* * *

_Schuldich awoke in something of a cold sweat, aware of a pair of bruising hands at his wrists, and a heavy weight on his abdomen. He shifted experimentally against his captor, not quite sure where he was, or how he'd ended up there, and still half-thinking he was caught up in a nightmare. Part of him wondered vaguely if he were still dreaming, while the other reminded him that this reality—the picture of him pinned down so heartlessly—had been his livelihood for years. _

_And then, some wicked part of him seemed to realize that it was Brad. _

_He found himself unable to speak, lewd remark dying in his throat when he realized that the stoic brunette was sporting a nasty bruise on his cheek and a cracked lip. He swallowed thickly, turning his head slowly to the left, and later to the right, verifying the fact that, yes, Crawford was pinning him down against his bed. Or what he presumed to be his bed. It was Crawford's actually. _

_The older man hesitated momentarily, peering into his eyes for a few seconds more before loosening his grip on the German's wrists. His lips were drawn into a grim line. _

_Schuldich sat up of his own accord once Brad had moved away, rubbing at his hips and aware that there would be bruises. But he didn't say anything, because he knew Brad wasn't the type to do that kind of thing, and because he knew there was some sort of reason. _

"_Were you having a nightmare?"_

_Emerald eyes widened a fraction, largely out of curiosity, before Schuldich found himself shaking his head no. No nightmare. He didn't remember what he had been dreaming of, actually. _

_Hazel eyes turned suddenly on him, their expression largely unreadable and infinitely more troubled. Brad's hair had fallen into his eyes, and for once, these weren't hidden by the glare of his glasses. Schuldich realized vaguely that Brad didn't look as though he had slept. Or been sleeping. _

"_I was afraid they'd try to take you down there."_

_His voice was steady, and there wasn't much sentiment in what he'd said, but Schuldich found himself drawn to the man, nonetheless. "Did they?"_

"_They tried to."_

_And that seemed to explain the bruises at his wrists. _

_The raven-haired man turned away from him, sitting at the very edge of the bed, eyes focused on a bookcase to his left, "I thought maybe they'd try the virus on you."_

"_On me?"_

"…_A strong, but nevertheless expendable telepath. They wonder how this sort of thing would affect you."_

"_Is that what the meeting was about?"_

_Hazel eyes turned back to him, but Brad didn't answer._

* * *

"Go!" 

The lights flickered off in a matter of seconds, and Aya rose quickly to his feet, and bounded towards the entrance. Their attack had been planned quickly, and they hadn't had much time to access files and blueprints, so their entry had to be swift and deliberate. They didn't have extra time to waste on being careful and erasing their trails.

After all, they should have known better than to not anticipate them.

He knew Youji was a few feet behind, ears keen to the sound of Balinese's wire. The emergency lights hadn't turned on yet, and Aya supposed Omi had something to do with that, though he couldn't be sure entirely.

But it didn't matter.

Even without light, they knew exactly where they were going.

Schuldich frowned, somehow aware that there was something fundamentally wrong with being able to escape so easily. They hadn't made it out of the apartment complex, per say, and were barely a few feet out of Ken's captivity room, really, but Schuldich couldn't help the feeling that…there was something just _wrong_ with the whole picture.

Brad wasn't the type to give in so easily, much less when it was something he was interested in protecting.

"What's wrong?" Siberian's voice was loud in the quiet of the night, and Schuldich clamped his hand over the man's mouth on reflex.

_Brad?_

He chanced calling out to the American despite the immediate danger, aware that there were others on his trail tonight, and that these could just as easily pick up on his call. Still, there wasn't an answer, and Schuldich wasn't entirely surprised. Without their link, the two weren't as intimately connected to each other. Nevertheless, he was aware of an abrupt sense of dread and doom flooding into his body, and he realized vaguely that he shouldn't have called out to Brad at all.

Schuldich hesitated a moment longer before drawing in a sudden, labored breath. He faltered under the brunette's weight, such that Ken had to press him against an adjoining wall to keep him standing, and brought his hands feverishly to his head. He felt pain. Brisk, pulsating pain that he hadn't felt in so long.

He could feel Siberian trying hard to keep him on his feet, and was aware of his distress and confusion, even, but more powerful was the throbbing in his temples and the lethargy in his limbs. He could feel himself sliding down the wall, Siberian sprawled atop him, trying desperately to rouse him with little avail.

They were here.

* * *

There had been voices. 

He had hesitated on account of these, partially because he recognized them, and partially because he had heard Ken's name. At Youji's approach, he brought a gloved finger to his lips to signal for silence.

But what were two people doing, discussing Ken in the middle of a blackout, without so much as a pause or question in regard to it?

Aya's eyes only narrowed further once he realized whom the other voice belonged to.

* * *

"_Telepath?"_

_Schuldich nodded boldly, offering a majestic bow and a suggestive grin. "At your service." _

_It was an ill-hatched scheme, to say the least, but he was willing to do that and more for his freedom. The woman he was confronted with was stout and matronly, but the gleam in her eye had been unmistakable. There was ambition in her gaze, and a certain megalomania in her overall being, and Schuldich—like Brad—realized she was as close to a blessing as they were ever going to get in Rosenkreuz. _

_She wasn't a psychic so much as a businesswoman, and her primary ticket into Rosenkreuz was in the form of a pharmaceuticals company eager to achieve recognition as the most expansive. Which meant, in short, that she needed new medication that had already been tested, and an infinite amount of test subjects. _

_She had never imagined, however, that Rosenkreuz was an institution for the 'gifted', and much less that a handsome, mischievous telepath would place himself in her hands the moment she had entered. His mind had lapped coquettishly at hers, and while he had introduced himself with formalities outwardly, his mind had caressed and teased at her own, promising her what he could do, and requesting very little in exchange. There would be another, he had said, and instantly, she had seen a picture of the man, and she had been so marveled—both by the austerity in the raven-haired man she saw in her mind, and by the lovely sensations the redheaded telepath spun in her being. _

_It had been difficult not to agree. _

_Conning the Rosenkreuz officials would be harder, but Schuldich was adept enough at mind-editing, and Brad was a safe insofar as thoughts went. They'd be able to do it—they'd escape before they even thought of infecting him._

* * *

"Welcome." 

Aya stilled at the voice. He had recognized it earlier, granted, but hearing it, and being confronted with its owner was another thing entirely. Though he had always been reluctant to admit it, he had always been intimidated by the American.

Still, that discomfort he felt around the man wasn't so much _fear_ as it was uncertainty. He was glad Youji was there.

"Abyssinian. Balinese. You made it."

He would have normally been irritated at that type of greeting—might have usually growled, even—but there was a certain smugness lacking in Oracle's demeanor. There was no mockery in his tone, and his expression was more anxious than derisive. There was something decidedly…off…about him.

And that was when he realized: Mastermind was absent. Since he had stumbled onto Schwarz and had the misfortune of making their acquaintance, there had never been a time when the German had been missing from the tall man's side. He had seen the two annoyed and irritated with each other, but even then, the redhead had seemed almost _parasitically_ attached to Oracle.

His absence was almost unnerving.

He was about to comment, suddenly curious about the obvious apprehension in the usually stoic man, when Youji interrupted. "Persia."

Lilac eyes focused almost absently on the man seated calmly and condescendingly before them. There, resplandant in all his glory, sat Persia—the head of Kritiker, and ultimately, their betrayer.

He'd be lying if he said he were _surprised_ that Persia had sold them out, most especially given what he had found in Ken's files, but at the moment, Persia was little more than background noise.

Aya turned his eyes back towards Oracle. "Where is he?"

His voice was quiet—not particularly demanding, but certainly not compliant.

Oracle didn't reply immediately, turning instead to focus his gaze on a bookcase to the far right. His voice was almost imperceptibly softer when he spoke next, "…At the moment, he's hopefully safe with Mastermind—though we can't count on that for much longer."

The tall brunette shifted his gaze back toward him, eyes entirely candid for once, and gave an absent shrug in Persia's direction. "Your honor, or mine?"

* * *

He was drifting. Drifting in some finite inky blackness that made him wish Brad were around. But he had been in that murkiness before, and he knew—better than anyone—that Brad wasn't going to be the one to get him out of it. Either he managed to escape on his own, or Eszett decided to bring him back into the light.

* * *

Brad nudged distastefully at Persia's prone body, eyebrow raised in a silent chastise at Abyssinian. _Too messy_, he seemed to be saying. But then, he composed himself, straightened his tie, and crossed his arms about his chest. "Schuldich hoped you had found out some things about Siberian. Care to discuss them here before we set off?" 

"Set off?" Youji narrowed his brows and looked around, "…what are you planning? With Ken?"

"Me? Absolutely nothing. It's Eszett we have to worry about now."

Brad circled the blonde as he spoke, because it was always easier for him to deal with stress when someone else was visibly more troubled than he was. "Siberian—or Ken, as you would call him—has been targeted by Eszett. This—" the American cast an absent wave in Persia's direction, "…idiot, is partially responsible for that. And for Ken's infection."

Here he paused, focusing hazel on violet, "…but Schuldich seemed to think you already knew something about that."

Aya nodded, remembering the information in those files.

"Well then. Care to tell me more?"

Aya opened his mouth to speak, when Youji once more interrupted, "Why should we? You've kidnapped Ken—how do we know he's not in danger?"

Brad frowned a little, not pleased with Balinese's inability to keep a level head. "You seem not to have an idea of whom we're dealing with here. Eszett. Rosenkreuz."

"Eszett." That name, he definitely knew. Rosenkreuz…Rosenkreuz he definitely didn't.

Oracle almost smiled, "Rosenkreuz. I'm sure you've heard of it _somewhere_. After all, your friend Ken certainly has. Facility for training and experimentation of the elite? It seems that…a few years ago, there was an outbreak of something similar to what Siberian seems to have come down with."

"So…it's infectious?"

"Not at all. It takes a precise mixture of decidedly obscure chemicals to trigger an infection. Each and every person was infected deliberately. Including Siberian. My only good news is that none of them died of the disease in and of itself."

Here, the man paused and bowed his head a little, "…it was usually the experiments that followed that did it."

* * *

"_So you found the bodies?"_

_Schuldich shifted uncomfortably and pulled at his uniform. "Where were they?"_

_Brad licked his lips as he adjusted some paperwork on his desk, looking for a particular document that had disappeared, "…In the laundry room. Seems they've been making they're way there through the…chutes." _

_At the redhead's expression, he paused, not quite sure how to continue. They had tried to take him twice more, and each time, it had been markedly more difficult for him to sustain him. The last thing the German really needed to hear was that the bodies showed all sorts of…experimental proddings. "Seems they don't last long."_

"_You mean they can't endure the experimentation?"_

"_Not as much as the healthy ones, no. Which is interesting considering…none of them have really died of it."_

_The redhead paused, suddenly curious, "Do they have a name for it? Some sort of code?"_

"_None that I know of. Aside from cynically referring to it as 'the Gift', for some absurd reason or other." _

"_Hmm…" Schuldich chewed on his upper lip as he tried to relax against Brad's bed, "… 'the Gift', huh?"_

_They two stayed silent for a few minutes, with Brad working diligently on some proposal or other, and Schuldich leafing absently through one of the institution's brochures he had pilfered from Frau Ehrgeiz on one of her many visits. "But why would Rosenkreuz want to be involved in the pharmaceutical business, of all things? Don't they have enough fun, torturing supposed 'elites' and—" the youth's expression suddenly changed._

"_And—"_

"…_You think it's them?"_

_Brad regarded the small youth before him with a mixed expression. The German had the bad habit of using generalist terms whenever he referred to anyone relatively threatening to his person. "Them?"_

"_You know? Those people…Eszett."_

* * *

"And no one's ever died of it?" Aya thought a flicker of hope might have bubbled somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He tried to quench it, afraid that somehow, his heart would jump to all the wrong conclusions, in all the wrong ways. 

Oracle shrugged, not really answering at first. "Not from the illness, no."

"But," Youji intervened, licking a little feverishly at his lips, suddenly remembering his night with Mastermind, and the man's concern for Ken "…there have been some that have died?"

"…And some that have survived."

The American's voice held some edge of finality to it, though Aya guessed it had more to do with his urgency to leave than it did with Youji's question. But he wouldn't let the matter go so easily; not when it concerned Ken…not when it concerned something the youth had been forced to battle the entirety of teenage years. "But some…haven't?"

Oracle frowned, wondering briefly why the two Weiss were so fixated on the issue, before rubbing wearily at the bridge of his nose. "That's why I suggested we hurry. Those that have died from that precious little gift were those that Eszett was able to get their hands on—those they were able to experiment with."

"Experiment?" Youji had gone from livid, to bewildered, to horrified.

"That's right, Balinese. Experimentation. It's what Eszett thrives on. All for the lonjevity and destruction of mankind alike."

* * *

"_So, it requires a deliberate manipulation?"_

_Schuldich drew his brows together, fanatically pacing the length of Brad's room. "So it's not enough to be infected." _

_Brad shook his head, studying the redhead from the corner of his eye and momentarily wishing he would stop. He knew Schuldich was a high-energy individual, more-so that he tended to become awash in anxiety if he weren't in constant movement, but the young man had been almost uncharacteristically nervous as of late. _

"_From what I understand," the brunette carefully put down his pen and turned to face his comrade, "after you've been infected, there are a series of triggers that are necessary before symptoms are showcased. That'd be an obvious way to avoid suspecting Rosenkreuz, or contact with people from here, if anyone were to be infected." _

"_So what you're saying is that—"_

"_It's quite possible that a lot of us have already been infected, and that we're only just awaiting the trigger."_

_The unsaid was obvious. If their suspicions were true, they'd have to use Ehrgeiz to their advantage before Eszett would get tired of the telepath's games and bring him down directly—if not to implant a trigger, than most certainly to implant the Gift; and after that—it was a bleak road._

* * *

It had never really been in Aya's nature to trust, much less when he was expected to trust someone who was _fundamentally_—in so many ways—against everything he stood for. At the moment, however, he had little option or say otherwise, as he was sure Oracle would force him along, even if he were to deny going. 

The man was quieter than Aya had imagined he would be; though, he suspected that had everything to do with Mastermind's absence. He wasn't quite sure what was going on, save for the fact that Ken was in some sort of grave, supernatural danger, and that Mastermind—to his understanding—was going to be of little help if they were confronted by Eszett. Why that was, he had no idea, nor did he understand what interest Oracle had in the entire situation. If Eszett wanted Ken that badly, then the least the American could have done—as a true patriot and ex-alumn of Rosenkreuz—would be to hand over the man.

It seemed he was doing the exact opposite.

The redhead didn't inquire about the absence of the rest of Schwarz, though he was more than curious, and simply nodded briskly when Oracle asked if Bombay were around. They would need anyone they could find, he had said.

Which naturally prompted Youji to open his mouth and demand the rest of Schwarz show their faces and join them, if they _really_ wanted the extra help.

Nevermind, that _they _were the ones that really needed the help. He doubted that, even with their particular skill and training, Weiss would have been much of a match against Eszett.

"Prodigy and Berserker are on stand by. I didn't think it'd have been wise to bring them along. Better one as peace-maker than three as trouble."

* * *

_Schuldich smiled hungrily, just barely able to contain his lust. _

_Brad frowned a little, having always been slightly disturbed when the redhead exhibited that particular sort of barabarism about his victims, and waved away the mental image._

_He had been having an increasing number of visions as of late, and he had been increasingly dissatisfied with them. He knew for a fact that his gift was not affected—positively or negatively—by circumstance or necessity, so he was almost certain that a great majority of those visions were false. His visions often came by chance—unexpected and uncontrolled—and certainly not in as great a number as they were coming now. He was hesitant to think he had somehow been able to 'will' his visions on. _

_Maybe it was the fact that his visions consisted solely of Schuldich that had him more unnerved; he was almost certain that the higher officials of Rosenkreuz had finally realized what was going on, and were—somehow—trying to befuddle him into thinking that Schuldich deserved what was going to happen to him…which only made him even more apprehensive. _

_He wasn't sure he appreciated having his mental barriers breached. Not even Schuldich had been able to go through him, and Brad had been glad for the fact. The last thing he needed was for other, unsolicited forces to read him like an old novel. _

_The man chanced a look around, rubbing at his eyes and taking in his blurry milieu. He lay in bed, having only just awakened from a particularly unpleasant dream, and wondered at the chances. Schuldich had gained some ground with Ehrgeiz, though certainly not enough, and now that he was having all those visions, Brad wondered if it were even worthwhile. If they had already figured out their plans, then going through with them was only suicide. _

_Still, his dream had been disturbing. He had heard Schuldich talk about minds, and ravaging them, and how it felt, but Brad had been unable to sympathize. For one, he wasn't a telepath, and for another, he lacked that certain malignant air of bloodlust that seemed essential to Schuldich. The boy was genuine, and even a little bit naïve in some respects, but there was that aspect of his personality that sometimes made him shiver. Schuldich, whether he wanted to admit it or not, was a little bit on the psychotic side. _

_Which wasn't to say he thought himself particularly sane. He was cold-blooded and calculating. He knew that. And, maybe, his dislike for Schuldich's methods wasn't so much an inability to sympathize with his bloodlust, as it was his estimation that those games were a waste of time. A quick kill was better. _

_He wondered momentarily over where the redhead was before remembering he had been called out early that day to attend a mandatory physical. Both had understood well enough the reasoning behind the call, but had been able to do little about it. If Schuldich didn't go, he would be punished. He chanced a tentative call to the telepath, having only communicated that way with him as of late, and thought he heard a reply, but it wasn't clear enough for him to hear. _

_Schuldich still had far to go as a telepath. He was powerful, but unskilled. _

_But he was more curious about those documents Schuldich had stumbled on. They had outlined the procedures and chemicals in Rosenkreuz's newest program of infection, but Schuldich had been unable to recall key fact and concepts well enough. He had seen the files, read them half-heartedly, even, but hadn't been interested enough to retain much of the information. _

_Brad wondered if they could somehow access those files again. At the rate they were going, it was either going to be escape with Ergheiz as a vehicle, or outsmarting Eszett in their infection plan. Both options were as unlikely as the other._

* * *

Ken pursed his lips together, trying to haul Mastermind to his feet, all the while aware that the man was largely unconscious and uncooperative. At the same time, he was aware of a similar lethargy building in his limbs, numbing at everything and burning at the same time. He itched to cry out—to yell, scream—but his mouth was just as useless as the rest of his him, and he watched on, almost detached from his own body, as his hands failed him and Mastermind fell to the floor. He flinched for the redhead, thinking how much it would hurt to fall so…solidly, but the telepath didn't even wince. 

Ken fought to stay awake, fighting the heaviness in his lids and the fuzziness in his mind. As though distantly, he could hear a whistling tone, soft and lulling, and altogether frightening in its ethereality. As his eyes fell closed, he could make out a figure—cloaked in black and devilish—and he wished, with all the fervor in his being, that Aya were there.

* * *

_Schuldich worked a pristine white oxford over his thin shoulders, studying the brunette in his bed with an absent sort of expression. He had overslept. He had momentarily thought of waking Brad, but had decided against it. There would be no point in worrying the man anymore than necessary. Besides. Today was the day. Erhgeiz was sure to be more than pleased by his appearance, and infinitely more by what he would do. _

_He wasn't particularly thrilled about the idea, but he and Brad had concluded that he would make the most believable gigolo, seeing as to how Brad was largely asexual. Schuldich leered a little at the thought, taking in the sleeping form of the man—his taut muscles and his smooth, pale skin. Still, when it came to seduction, the German had a feeling the man would fall dangerously short. Besides, his little soujorn into Erhgeiz's mind had suggested she preferred 'the feisty little redhead' to the 'dull American' anyway. _

_Brad hadn't specified how far he had to go with her either. As far as he knew, given his particular gift, he could just as easily make her go insane without so much as touching her. Maybe multiple orgasms for her pleasure only? But he'd only be able to manage that if no telepaths were around, and even then, he'd have to make sure the higher-level telepaths would be far enough away to not pick up on his plans. He'd also have to make sure to pin-point his intentions solely at her. The last thing he needed was for every female in the nearby vicinity to suddenly experience an inexplicable surge in lust and libido. _

_Which suggested that he'd have to convince her to leave with him; that is, to somehow make her convince the higher officials that she needed Schuldich and Schuldich alone for some time. _

_The redhead licked quickly at his lips. It wouldn't have been the first time Rosenkreuz had sold out its students. That'd had happened a ridiculous number of times before. _

_Usually, he'd been the primary victim. Everyone had asked for him, because he was slim, because he was foreign and exotic, because he was untamed—those first years at Rosenkreuz had been awful for him. He had gotten used to the attention, learned to play around with his victims, even, but that defense only worked if he were coupled with a non-psychic. If anyone who requested him happened to be a telepath, or anything of the type, he was screwed. Quite figuratively and literally. _

_That had changed marginally with Brad, largely because the young man had some degree of leverage in the institution—many even suspected and anticipated his eventual takeover of Rosenkreuz, to continue the 'dream of the elite.' Brad's main weapon was that he was largely unreadable. Schuldich had tried on many occasions to break through the man's shield with little avail; he wasn't sure how better-skilled telepaths would fare, but given Brad's general closed nature, he assumed very few had succeeded in breaching his mental integrity. _

_And, since he had met Brad, the man had been his solace. He had 'claimed' him, to some degree, and the higher officials, who both respected and feared him, had acquiesced to let Schuldich belong to him, and only him, insofar as Brad continued to be an exemplary student, and potential gem to the history of Rosenkreuz. Brad was a dangerous enemy—refined, impassive, and generally agreeable in all aspects of his person. _

_The last thing Rosenkreuz really expected was for Brad to betray them. _

_As such, under normal circumstances, Rosenkreuz would have very apologetically turned down Frau Erhgeiz's request. However, Brad had been right in assuming that Rosenkreuz—with Eszett's backing—was more than eager to establish a beneficial relationship with the pharmaceuticals Erhgeiz represented, and would consequently consider Schuldich a sufficient sacrifice. Why the higher telepaths at Rosenkreuz didn't just control Erhgeiz into accepting a contract, the redhead couldn't rightly say. It seemed like they were taking the long way around. _

_The only real problem was that after he was out of Rosenkreuz and ensconced in a lovely suite with Erhgeiz—no doubt under supreme vigiliance from officials—Brad would still be **inside**__the school, trapped for all respective purposes. _

_Maybe they should have planned a little better. _

_Unless…_

_Schuldich chanced another glance at the man's sleeping form, deciding to trust the American in his plans, and patiently wait for the resolution. _

_With solid steps, he left the room, black shoes echoing down the corridor. His pace was quick but relaxed, his hands shoved into his slack pockets, and a smug little grin on his face. Time to put the plan into action._

* * *

Omi glanced upwards at the tall man, unsure exactly of what to say, but trusting in Aya's judgement all the same. His look to Youji proved that the man was seething, and Omi wondered briefly what had gone on in his absence. Upon taking in the splattered droplets of red on Aya, he assumed Persia had been eliminated. He turned his eyes back on Oracle. 

At least they had been successful in finding him.

* * *

_Schuldich turned his face away momentarily, quite stifled by the woman's pawing hands and deafening pants. _

_His shirt had been inconsiderately ripped apart, and his slacks were being hastily unbuttoned. He frowned a little at the pudgy woman beneath him, realizing that he hadn't seduced her inasmuch as she was raping him, and licked slowly at his lips. _

_With a smooth little hum he had entered her mind, and with a soft caress at her temple, her hands had fallen limp and off his body. The redhead moved toward the edge of the bed, hanging his legs off the side, still humming, and stretched. His mind was working eagerly on hers, lapping pleasantly at the very edges of her consciousness, feeling her desires and shivering a little as he felt them in turn. The woman beside him had begun to move once more, writhing and shifting in muted pleasure, as her body mimicked what his mind suggested. _

_He chanced a glance at his watch, pouting a little when he realized he still had a little over an hour's wait, and sighed. He turned emerald eyes back on the woman, aware he had to make the scene convincing, and set to work pulling off her maroon slacks. Soon, she was nude and moving about excitedly, and the image was a little too much for Schuldich, who moved away and sat on the floor, his back against the wall. He closed his eyes, trying to keep the woman's desire at bay, all the while knowing that he was going to be incredibly wired for the next few hours. _

_At the moment, being so intimately connected in their minds as they were, her desire was his, and whatever pleasures she felt, he felt twofold. _

_He shivered again, fingertips twitching despite his convictions otherwise, and felt his pulse quicken just the slightest bit. Erhgeiz had given up on being quiet a few moments ago, and was now openly moaning and calling out his name. _

_The German sat quietly, meanwhile, knees drawn up against his chest, cheek cradled and pressed against his arms, eyes closed and lips pressed tight shut. He wished Brad would hurry and show up._

* * *

_Brad walked with purposeful steps, careful to keep his expression in check. He was angry, he was irritated, and he was very, very volatile. Nevertheless, he was Brad Crawford, and Brad Crawford's anger was showcased in very much the same way that Brad Crawford's sadness, happiness, and annoyance were; that is to say, he had no expression. _

_He knocked, perhaps a bit harder than necessary, on the door of the institution's headmaster, and very politely asked where it was that they had taken Schuldich. The man studied him curiously, expression very carefully masked and mannerisms entirely too casual and apologetic for his liking. _

"_The German was requested by the most esteemed Frau—" _

"_Where is he?"_

_The man sputtered slightly, perhaps indignant, perhaps not, and drew his brows together and raised a lecturing finger at the precog, "…Mr. Crawford, dare I say—"_

"_You dare not. Where is he?"_

_Granted, Brad wouldn't have chanced behaving so insolently with someone in Rosenkreuz who actually held some leverage of power. But the chairmaster was largely a figure-head; the ones he really had to be careful of angering were those that had taken him in as their protégé, anyway. If he were to plead his case with them, they would very gladly (though suspiciously) lead him to Schuldich's whereabouts. _

_But there was no need for him to draw their attention; better to deal with the incapable headmaster, than the very cynical and probing 'elite' officials at Rosenkreuz. _

_He frowned suddenly, deliberately and blatantly, and made a sweeping gesture to turn, before the man before him gave something of a squeal. "He's near here, near here. Frau Erhgeiz did not want him…here. So she took him elsewhere. Beyond the gates. She was given permission, and I merely transmitted the message." _

_Brad nodded expressly, not impressed, and made for the staircases. He planned on a little visit to the lower chambers, where he was sure he'd be well-received, and then to Schuldich. _

_His steps were crisp and brisk as he descended the marble steps downwards into Rosenkreuz's experimental facilities, and then past these into the holding areas. Those that broke the rules of Rosenkreuz—or tried to escape, or were particularly formidable—were kept here. Like the rest of the institution, even the detainment areas were a bleach white, irritating and nauseating in all its hypocrisy. _

_He was heading towards the officer's study, when a gleaming plaque to his left caught his eyes. His pace slowed, and he took in the bold text with a curious pique. 'Prodigy. Telekinetic.' _

_Prodigy. That must have been his codename. He approached the holding cell slowly, not sure what to expect, and had barely peered in, when he felt a strong force constrain him to the cell. His initial instinct should have been panic, which he supposed was what the telekinetic had expected, but instead, Brad merely made an effort to ascertain exactly who was in there. Hazel eyes finally found a bundle retreated to the far right side of the cell—a small bundle, shivering and angry—and the young man frowned. It was a boy. A young boy. _

_Suddenly, he wished Schuldich were around, so that he might be able to communicate with the so-called Prodigy. _

_He opened his mouth—tried to speak—and in that moment, once the boy had realized what he'd said, he was released. He had told him to wait. To wait patiently. _

_Brad backed away from the holding cell, readjusting his uniform into futher impeccability, and continued on his way. From both sides of him, he could see faces appearing, some clearly having been tortured, and others only there because of their power. All around, the faces wore a mixure of curiosity and perplexity as to what a student was doing down there, and the American even felt probing minds attempting to enter his own. But he fought these with purpose. _

_He arrived at the official's door soon enough, and like before, knocked three times. A voice called him, and he turned the knob swiftly and presented himself with a nod. _

_The official rose, pleased to see him, and hesitated only when he took in the sight of the man's expression. The raven-haired man looked decidedly annoyed, he mused, and he knew—better than anyone—that Crawford only ever showed such obvious signs of ill-temper when he had been crossed. "Crawford?"_

_Brad bowed, eyes relatively murderous, and gritted his teeth. "They took Schuldich." _

_The official raised a brow, already quite aware of the relationship his protégé kept with the telepath, and studied him closely. He had never quite approved of the German, largely because of his insolence and insobriety, but he had allowed Crawford the diversion because he had supposed a number of things; firstly, that the German would learn from him, and secondly, the Crawford could somehow glean a sense of allegiance from the scrawny redhead, in such a way that Rosenkreuz might be able to harness his power in the future. _

_Still, taking the German away had been something of a transgression against Brad. The American had asked for little in return for his allegiance and intelligence, and taking away his only diversion seemed like something rather undermining. If Braun knew anything about Crawford, it was that the man was prideful and demanded respect. Taking away Schuldich—without so much as a request or notification—was a sharp blow. _

"_Did they take him to experimentation?" Braun was careful about his tone, aware of Rosenkreuz's plans to experiment on the redhead, but not entirely particular about letting the American know. _

_Brad's eyes narrowed minutely as he shook his head, "…they took him to **Erhgeiz**." His annoyance at the fact was evident. _

_Erhgeiz? Braun frowned a little, not really sure who or what that was, before suddenly recalling the round, pudgy woman he had been forced to tour around Rosenkreuz. "They took him to Erhgeiz. I see. Any plans?"_

_Brad nodded stiffly. "I'd like two for backup." _

"_Two?" Braun raised curious eyes toward the taller brunette, "…which two have you decided on then? I'm curious."_

"_Prodigy…and—the albino."_

"_Hmm?" Braun quirked a brow, "…Any reason you need such high artillery?"_

_The raven-haired man didn't reply, instead setting his lips into a straight line and gritting his teeth. _

"_I see," Braun smiled a little at the display, pleased with his charge's ability to keep a poker face, "…you feel undermined and want to show them just how much power you really have…so that they know better next time."_

_Brad nodded, careful to let Braun reach his own conclusions. He knew the man didn't trust him as much as he was awed by him, and that all the help he often proferred was often only given in anticipation of his failure. He was his protégé, yes, and he was an excellent mentor, but that didn't take away from the truth of Rosenkreuz: no one trusted anyone, and help never came free. _

"_Prodigy's unmanageable as of now. And…the other one, I'm not sure anyone will ever be able to control." _

"_All the better." _

_Again, a snakelike grin curved about Braun's lips. He was anticipating some great disaster. "Very well. Take them." _

_Brad nodded his thanks and left the room without so much as a second glance. _

_Fool. _

_He traced his steps back toward Prodigy, armed with the code of his release, and eased the holding cell opened once it had been unlocked. There, still cowering against a corner of the cell, was the boy. And this time, instead of pinning him back, the youth stared upwards at him with wide blue eyes. _

"_Come on," Crawford urged, "…we've go to hurry."_

* * *

_Enjoy? Note that, Schuldich's OOC-ness is purposeful, in this case. And yes, I know that Brad-Schu has taken over, but it's all for good reason.   
_


	20. Escaping Rosenkreuz

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
The Weaver Atropos  
**Chapter 20--Escaping Rosenkreuz_

* * *

_Somehow, he had known exactly where to find the redhead. It had been something of a gamble, he had to admit, but Brad knew he had to take his chances. Braun had been right in saying the albino was unmanageable—he had attacked him as soon as he had opened the man's cell door—but the child, the child was more than complacent. _

_In fact, to be honest, Brad couldn't really understand why they'd had problems with the boy to begin with. He was strong, though. There was no denying it. He was inquisitive, too. Already he had asked where they were going. Brad had told him the truth. It wouldn't do much good to lie to his allies. _

_In fact, Prodigy had been more than useful after they'd left the institution. Schuldich wasn't around, which meant they had no way of befuddling the caretakers who were following them around at a decent pace, but with Prodigy, at least they were able to gain some distance on the men. _

_The boy had grasped onto his hand, and the two were walking along in that way. Brad had been surprised by the contact initially, seemingly forgetting that the telekinetic was, in fact, a child, but had gotten used to the contact as they'd ambled along. _

_Prodigy was also good at constraining the albino. _

_They had arrived at the hotel earlier than he had anticipated, but getting in would be another story altogether, and finding them would be even more difficult. He had hoped Schuldich would be broadcasting by then, but he should have known better than that. If Schuldich was indeed adhering to their plans, then Erhgeiz must be going wild in one of the suites, and the telepath certainly wouldn't have wanted anyone else to know that. _

_That didn't leave him with much options. _

_He turned towards the small boy beside him, taking in the straight brown hair and curious blue eyes, and licked quickly at his lips. "We've got to find someone in there. I'm…I'm not sure how advanced you are—"_

"_What do you want me to do?" The voice was ghostly. Quiet and controlled, and calculating all at once. For a moment, Brad had to stifle the urge to drop the child's hand. _

"_The computer. Find where a certain Erhgeiz is." _

_The youth nodded. _

_Brad steered the boy toward the revolving doors, making their entry into the hotel, and was vaguely aware that the boy was letting them through with his power. He wasn't conscious of it, Brad didn't think, but everything he did—every step and motion he carried out—was half helped by his telekinesis. _

_Once inside, Brad strode confidently toward the receptionist, business expression in place, and pulled out his wallet. "I'm here for a few days. Just flew in from France." He paused to study her reaction, pleased that she was smiling amicably at him. A covert glance at the telekinetic showed that the boy was staring curiously and fixatedly at him, and Brad realized vaguely that he couldn't see the computer because he wasn't tall enough. _

_He was about to wrap his arms about the boy—to pull him up to the desk with some excuse or other—when an absent glance at the computer to the woman's right proved that the youth was indeed, using his powers. The keys were being depressed by some unseen force, and—had he not already known what was causing the movement—Brad would have been unnverved. He turned back toward the woman with a crisp smile and nodded at her inquiry. "Just a few days. For me and my…son."_

"_Oh! Is that the little boy?" The woman perched herself excitedly over the edge of the desk to better spy the young boy. "He's so cute!"_

_Prodigy remained unfazed at the attention, staring at the women with just as much curiosity as she was staring at him, before looking to Brad for some directive as to how to respond. Perhaps feeling more comfortable with him, who was a fellow alumn of Rosenkreuz, the young boy let his hand wind about that of the older man's once more, and shied away from the woman, studying her instead from behind Brad's trousers. _

"_Oh! He's so shy! What a sweetheart! Here," She handed Brad the keys to the room, along with a bright red lollipop. "For your son," she clarified with a beaming smile. Brad nodded his thanks, having expended all his amicability for the day, and made off with purposeful steps towards the staircase. _

_Prodigy's hand was tight in his. _

* * *

Ken came to a few hours later, not sure where he was and not particularly thinking he cared, so long as he could pass out again and enjoy a few more hours of pleasant numbness. His thoughts were cut short, however, by a persistent weight at his chest.

He realized then, having opened his eyes, that he was in a pitch-black holding cell. His searching hands further suggested that the weight on his chest, should his guess be right, was none other than Mastermind, and—if things were as they had been when Mastermind and he were trying to escape—then Ken was pretty sure that the German was still unconscious.

He felt around the cell absently, intimidated by what he might find, and thought momentarily that he heard voices, but he wasn't sure. The cell wasn't large, by any means, but it was bigger than any cell he had seen and, after a more thorough inspection, Ken realized that the place wasn't closed off entirely, but held a small window in the center of what he supposed was a door a few feet in front of them. He wondered how he had missed it before, seeing as to how it was the only obvious means of escape, and carefully wriggled out from beneath Mastermind to better inspect it.

He pressed his face to the glass, suddenly quite curious, and was surprised to find nothing more than a pristine hallway, lined with a myriad of other steel-lined cells, all with a window leading to the hallway. His eyes spotted faces looking curiously at him—the newest specimen, he supposed—and he broke away from the door only when he thought he heard those voices again. He retreated back into the darkness of the cell, not sure if those looking in on him could see him in the darkness, or if they were as blind in it as he was, before making his way back to the door. Once he was pressed against it, like before, he heard the voices again, but this time a quick glance left and right showed that no one was coming. He looked straight forward then, into what he supposed were the eyes of another prisoner, and heard the voices begin anew.

He wished Mastermind were awake. Then maybe he could explain what was going on. For now, all Ken could do was retreat back into the darkness. He found Mastermind's body again, and cradled this one against his own, thinking that maybe it would make the redhead wake quicker. He knew it was wishful thinking on his part, but he was out of options and it was just about the only think he could think of.

* * *

_They were in room 313, according to Prodigy. _

_The two ascended the steps to the second floor briskly, before waiting impatiently for the elevator. Brad was being almost uncharacteristically careless about his temper, fact which was not entirely lost on the young telekinetic. As soon as the elevator had arrived and they'd stepped on, he turned his eyes back to the young man. "What do I do about the other one?"_

_He meant the albino one. Berserker. He hadn't anticipated the man being so—difficult. _

"_You're still constraining him?"_

_A small nod. _

_Brad licked a little at his lips, thinking. "Turn him loose on the caretakers." _

"_I can turn him loose. Not specifically on them, though."_

_Brad frowned a little, not sure how smart that would be. Prodigy seemed to sense his discomfort. "I'm not a telepath." _

_Right. He needed Schuldich for that. "Can you keep holding onto him?"_

_Another nod. _

_Brad was cut off by the elevator dinging that they had arrived. _

_He stepped out briskly, Prodigy stumbling a little to catch up to him, hand still held within Brad's, and stopped suddenly in front of door 313. If he had had any doubts about Prodigy's work in finding the right room, then the loud moans wafting toward him from behind the door certainly quenched these. _

_Brad turned towards the small boy, not exactly sure whether Schuldich was working his magic through his mind or his touch, and hesitated. He made to pull away from Prodigy momentarily, intent on entering the room alone, but the boy's grip was steel-like. Brad nodded. He understood. _

_He bid the boy to unlock the door, and he did, and Brad didn't even have to touch the door before it had swung slowly open. The sight that greeted him wasn't a pleasant one, and he wished the boy had stayed out like he had suggested. Prodigy was huddled behind him, hiding behind his legs as he had done earlier, looking towards the scene with a mixture of curious fascination and disgust. He turned those blue eyes on Brad again, as though asking why he had come looking for **that**, before sensing another presence. _

_Schuldich had heard the ominous click of the lock, and had anticipated that one of the caretakers had realized what was going on and was going to subsequently beat him into the ground. He wouldn't be hard-pressed to retaliate—it'd be likely he was the stronger contender, anyway—but he wasn't itching to go against Brad's plans and send the whole thing to hell. So, he hesitated, probing instead with his mind. _

_He was surprised. He recognized Brad immediately, and had nearly shot out of his corner to meet him, when his mind encountered another. He was aware that this one was a strong one, though not necessarily one that had been well-trained, and hesitated, lest Brad be with one of the caretakers. _

_It was apprehensively, then, that Schuldich waited for his saviors to appear. He heard Brad's confident footfalls, but the other individual's he couldn't hear at all. He chewed on his lower lip, still crouched against a far corner of the room, face buried in his forearms, legs drawn up to his chest. _

_And then, finally, Brad came into his field of vision. _

"_Schuldich." The man's voice was soft—perhaps somewhat relieved—though the German could sense his disconcertion at finding him in so vulnerable a position. The redhead managed a slight grin before he realized that the person he had probed was really a child. _

_He looked on curiously, emerald green glittering with interest, and spied the small form that was huddled behind Crawford, peeking occasionally from around his legs. And that was when he realized it. He was a telekinetic. That was why he had no footfalls; his force muffled the sound. Damn kid probably **floated** when he walked. _

_He was quiet for a few moments more, both because of his interest in the child Brad had brought along, and because he hadn't quite recovered from his work on Erhgeiz. _

"_Schuldich?"_

_Brad brought him quickly to his feet, looking into his face, searching him for any signs of damage. He winced a little when the American's hands lingered on his arms, already feeling the nauseating flutter beginning in his gut, and pulled away. Beyond Brad's frame, he could make out Erhgeiz, still frantically moving about, her hips bucking off the mattress in reckless abandon, hands holding at her invisible lover. _

_Schuldich turned his eyes once more on the small boy, before turning his gaze back to Brad. "Who's he?"_

"_Prodigy. He's a—"_

"_Telekinetic, I know." _

_The redhead dropped to his knee, cocking his head a little and beckoning the boy with a small smile. To his surprise, the boy came forward, his eyes dancing with curiosity. Brad suddenly realized why the boy was being so compliant, and why everything seemed to hold his attention. "He's never been out of Rosenkreuz before." _

_Prodigy turned towards him, not denying the fact, before looking back at the German. _

"_He's been in that holding cell since he can remember." _

_Schuldich smiled wryly. "Well hello. I'm Schuldich." _

"_Are you a telepath?"_

_The youth nodded, hesitating only seconds before pointing at the writhing form of Erhgeiz. He grimaced a little. "And that's what I can do." _

"_There's one more," Brad whispered. _

"_Hmm?" Schuldich looked curiously about, "…he invisible?"_

_Prodigy studied him quietly from his fringe of shaggy brown hair. _

"_He's outside. Berserker." _

"_Lovely name, that." _

_Brad turned toward the small boy at his side and nodded, "…You can let him go."_

_The youth nodded. _

_Brad looked into Schuldich's eyes cautiously, still unsure of what had happened. "Think Ehrgeiz's had enough yet?"_

"_More than." Schuldich was shaking as he said it. _

* * *

_Getting out had been surprisingly easy after that. Schuldich had pushed Erhgeiz to the brink with a sudden overwhelming surge of emotions, and had subsequently pressed weakly into Brad. The man had been at a loss of what to do at first, having always been aware that Schuldich had difficulty with this particular type of experience, and hesitated only minutely before working his hand deftly about the redhead's abdomen and holding him up. _

_He could've asked Prodigy to do it, but that felt strangely…cold. _

_As he had anticipated, given his entreaty to Braun and the albino's work, by the time they exited the hotel, all that remained of the caretakers were a few bloody rags and scattered limbs. The man was dangerous, Brad noted, quietly taking in the sight of his mad, gleaming eyes and trembling limbs. But he wasn't wholly uncontrollable, either. _

_In fact, as though pleased with his work, the man was currently sitting a few feet away from the corpses, looking as though he had been waiting diligently for them to re-emerge. The way his eyes glittered when he looked at Schuldich and the way they gained some clarity when they focused on Brad, told the American that Berserker was a clever one, if not an insane one. _

_Brad's eyes gave the scene another final sweep and he raised a fine brow before looking back towards the albino. Red eyes stared calmly back. Where had he gotten the knives?_

_Before he had a chance to question the man, or even ponder about it himself, the small child at his side had squeezed his hand tentatively. "They'll be coming soon," he had whispered, his voice still eerie in its lack of childishness._

_Schuldich had nodded, swallowing a little, "…More caretakers."_

_But the small brunette had shaken his head. _

_The American paused, focusing hazel eyes on the small bundle beside him. He hadn't anticipated that Prodigy would have had much access to information, but…given what he had been able to do in the hotel—at his age—he should have known better than to underestimate him. What's more, Prodigy had been held in one of the wings leading to Braun's office; that is to say, he was a primary target for experimentation. _

_And, though that meant he was exposed to experimental proddings from every angle, it also meant that the officials at Rosenkreuz were at some risk of accidentally transmitting classified information. _

"_Not the caretakers," Blue eyes swept back toward Berserker, taking in the blood-splattered man in a calculating glance, "…the others."_

"_The others?" Brad thought he might've heard a note of fear in Schuldich's voice. _

_The boy nodded again. "Eszett." _

* * *

He was aware that he had lost all semblance of time, being in that dark room for hours on end. He doubted, however, that little less than six or seven hours had gone by, since he still wasn't hungry, and his stomach tended to be an almost obnoxiously religious biological clock, even in the worst of times.

He was thirsty, though. His throat was parched. He could feel Schuldich stirring minutely beside him, the man's body tensing and relaxing in seemingly painful spasms, but he was neither awake nor asleep. Ken had a vague idea of what was happening, but his attempts at waking the man had been relatively useless.

The brunette coughed a little, gathering his knees to his chest to fight off the sudden chill, and was immediatly aware of a sudden tingling in his limbs. Absently, and not quite sure why he did it, he ran a curious finger down the length of Mastermind's bare forearms, and was surprised that the man's flesh wasn't goosebumping. In fact, if he thought about it rationally, the cold had been sudden—cutting and sharp and highly unnatural.

Ken barely had time to reach his own conclusions before the door to the cell had been thrown open and a figure, silloutted black against the entryway and encased in light, appeared. The man cocked his head alluringly once he had spotted Ken, a smooth chuckle escaping his lips before he motioned towards Ken with his hands. "That one," he said, his command clear and brisk, "That one first. I'll have my fun with the telepath in the meantime."

And suddenly, out of nowhere, there were hands squeezing tightly at his arms and legs, and he was swept upwards in a multitude of bodies, and all he could think of was Mastermind, and how he was still trapped somewhere, defenseless and vulnerable.

A little part of him wished the redhead would be okay.

* * *

_Eszett. The name had been taunting him for years. Ever since he had stumbled on those documents of Erhgeiz's, he had been struck with a perverse interest in the organization, and even after all those close encounters with the bastards, he hadn't ever really been able to quell his curiosity. _

_But it wasn't curiosity, really. It was horror. Because he knew what they did to their test subjects, and because he knew Rosenkreuz wasn't a school so much as it was an experimentation facility—and because he knew what Eszett wanted them for. _

_Brad had known of course, since the man knew everything there was to be known, but he had assured Schuldich that Eszett had bigger and more complex schemes in mind. Destroying the human race, he had said, for the sake of building the elite. For the sake of perpetuating mankind. _

_Schuldich hadn't bothered arguing that the logic made no sense. _

_And then, Prodigy had mentioned it._

_And he had realized that maybe Eszett wasn't so invincible after all. _

* * *

"They're gone."

The voice was ghastly.

Prodigy had spoken, his face pale in the moonlight streaming in from the window. His dark brown hair fell into his eyes, shading them slightly, and making him glow almost ethereally. "They came for Schuldich."

He spoke to Oracle only, but his eyes flashed occasionally to Youji and Aya. "…the fact that Siberian was here was something of a bonus. I'm surprised they remembered him."

And there was that particular air of him _knowing_ something that the others didn't. He turned his eyes on Aya again, taking in the sight of the redhead, his frown deepening slightly as he did so. "Braun was here."

His eyes turned immediately back to Crawford. "He seemed pleased that Schuldich was alone."

Aya hesitated minutely, trying to quell his curiosity and wondering how the hell Prodigy knew so if he hadn't even been present.

In that moment, his eyes wandered further back toward Berserker and he felt his muscles tighten. The man stared back at him steadily, seemingly not keen on a fight, either.

"They're okay?" Youji's voice was shaky, almost as though he were unsure of whether he were allowed to talk or not.

Prodigy nodded at his question, but his eyes were still on Oracle. The young man bit his lip carefully before scrutinizing his leader thoughtfully. He paused before continuing. "They closed off his mind."

Aya sensed the alarm that flooded into Oracle, aware of the way he straightened and the way his eyes hardened. "Who was it?"

Prodigy shrugged a little, turning away from Oracle, no longer wanting to wait for the man's reaction. "It was Eszett themselves, apparently." His voice was a whisper.

Aya turned violet eyes curiously on the raven-haired man, wondering what he was thinking, exactly.

Prodigy continued, "…They left Berserker and I here…for the chase."

At this, Omi tentatively spoke up, his voice soft, but clear, "…Was there no way to stop them?"

Prodigy's expression was inmistakable.

"Where are they, then?" Aya was surprised by the strength of his voice.

The small youth turned blue eyes on him, momentarily inspecting him dispassionately, fringe of hair obscuring his expression.

His voice was oddly stricken.

"Rosenkreuz."

* * *

Ken was aware of the faces, first.

The faces that were hovering all around him. Only, they weren't there. Or, not _physically._ He could see them, and he imagined he _felt_ them, even…but his senses told him they were illusions.

Only these illusions could touch, and speak, and move.

He wondered vaguely if he were drugged, and dismissed it quickly.

This felt nothing like it had when Kase had drugged him. In fact, he felt strangely…_weightless_.

As though he were floating.

Which was impossible, since his hands and feet were bound by tight leather onto a metallic frame. He had some range of movement, and he wasn't entirely constrained, but he wasn't particularly comfortable either.

He wished his illusions would stop muttering in his head.

Then, suddenly, everything faded to black, and he landed with a bang, and the pain struck him from all angles.

For a minute, all he saw was the blood.

* * *

Brad was silent. Abyssinian was flooring the damn car, and he had no complaints, as all he could really think of was Schuldich. He shouldn't have been surprised that they had closed off his mind, since the damn bastards had done that to him before, but he _had_ been unnerved by the fact that Braun had made a personal appearance. The man was hardly the type to get involved in something unless he felt it was owed to him.

Which meant, in short, that his little fun with Schuldich was a personal sort of vengeance against Brad, no doubt for having left Rosenkreuz with two of its best potential weapons.

He cast Nagi a glance through the rearview mirror and frowned a little at the boy. Without Schuldich around, it was decidedly difficult for them to have discrete conversations, most especially with Weiss around. He wasn't particularly itching for Kritiker's lapdogs to become well-acquainted with his life story.

A greater part of him, however, was more concerned with bringing Nagi back into Rosenkreuz. The boy was stronger than he had ever been, and no doubt, he'd grow stronger with time, but Brad was still hesitant. The last thing he needed was for Braun to somehow manage to encarcerate Nagi again.

Yet, despite his concern for Nagi, Brad could do very little to contain his anxiety over Schuldich's condition. He knew the type of person Braun was, and was aware—perhaps better than anyone else—that the man was going to do everything in his power to make him regret his betrayal. With Schuldich incapacitated as he was, Brad doubted there was little the redhead could do to defend himself. What was worse, Brad knew that the German tended to become almost paralytically terrified whenever he was confronted with anything even remotely associated with Rosenkreuz.

It was his only weakness, really. Schuldich had never really been able to get past his memories at Rosenkreuz. And Brad could only imagine why. Before he had taken him under his wing, Schuldich had been a primary target for a number of illicit things.

A part of him still regretted having made him go through that ordeal with Erhgeiz.

* * *

His mind was floating, and he was drifting peacefully along. There were no coherent thoughts in his mind, no distracting chatter or emotions, and he was pleased with the soundlessness of his mind. There had never been this quiet in him before, save one other time, and he relished the very absence of everything.

There was nothing, and he was nothing, and everything was quiet and peaceful and still.

And, while it had begun as a sort of pleasant emptiness, he was aware of a more sinister quality to the quiet, and felt a surge of panic begin to bubble within. This quiet, he recalled, he had been in before, and it had turned constraining and painful, and dull. The peacefulness had become anxiety for when the quiet would break, and his drifting thoughts had congealed into a fightened mess.

He remembered all this, but as soon as he had, the peacefulness wrapped itself around him once more, and all he could hear was nothing, and he was pleased once more. Because there had never been this absolute quiet in his mind, save once, and he was drugged by the very nature of it all.

_Wake him up. I want him to be awake for it_.

And he stirred mildly in his thoughts, recognizing the voice minutely and not caring, and lapped at the quiet all around.

_It's not much fun to play with him if he's not even awake. _

And his mind made an effort to remain scattered, because he wanted to keep on floating, but a stronger power—something external to him and entirely foreign—was drawing him together again, and he could hear the voices begin to nip at his consciousness, and he could hear their thoughts, and it was all he could do to keep from running.

He fought against the presence, drifting some more and wanting to float forever, relaxing when the voices quelled and the chatter vanished.

And then, the stranger returned with a vengeance, and it was stronger, and his consciousness was smashed roughly together, and the voices were loud and amplified and he could barely think.

But the quiet place was still within reach, farther back, seemingly at the end of an endless tunnel, and he reached for it once more, feeling the voices diminish, letting his muscles loosen and his mind disperse. They'd stolen him from his quietness once before. They would not take him from his peace again.

* * *

_This one goes out to HeatherR, yay for RanKen!_

_I know I promised this would be the last chapter, and I **was **planning on that...but then I realized the chapter was running on upwards of 24+ pages, with no end in sight, so I decided I'd split the chapters, for a more reasonable reading length. Enjoy! And again, sorry for being an awful updater._


	21. Libations

* * *

_**In Fear Of  
**The Weaver Atropos__  
Chapter 21—Libations_

NOTES: Action scenes are tricky. Beware of alternating POVs.

* * *

Brad frowned. He had thought it would be a better idea if Abyssinian drove, having hoped that it would keep the man from asking too many questions, but his ploy hadn't quite worked. The man wasn't verbose, by any means, but he wasn't particular about refraining from inquiries, either.

He was partially glad Nagi was responding. He wasn't up to speaking, much less with his pulse racing as it was for Schuldich. The telepath worried him beyond measure, sometimes. Though Schuldich always bragged about his powers, and the sweetness of corrupting minds and teasing the consciousness and all that crap, Brad knew better. He knew the man was little more than a scared child who would give anything to get rid of his powers.

That was why Rosenkreuz had been so successful before. They had thought that they had rendered Schuldich entirely vulnerable in closing off his mind—which they had—but they had failed to anticipate the blessing that that was for the redhead. Schuldich, insofar as he abused his telepathy, had no qualms about forsaking it entirely, and Brad was well aware that the thoughts were something of a self-inflicted suffering for him.

It had been hard to bring Schuldich out of his mind while they had been at Rosenkreuz, not because the school had done a great job of keeping him constrained, but because the redhead had so relished the quietness in his deadened mind, that he had done all he could to stay in that state. Schuldich was a strong telepath—stronger than the lot at Rosenkreuz, he would wager, and probably only a few degrees weaker than Eszett magistrates—and the only way one was going to encase his mind, was if he would allow it. Were he to want it—once induced—Schuldich could stay curled up in his mind so long as he would please. It would take a stronger telepath to bring him out.

And, in the end, that was what worried him. Brad knew Schuldich had a habit of drifting, and he knew—from experience—that the man's chief complaint was the incessant chatter in his head. Without him around, Schuldich would have been a lot more susceptible to the voices, and in turn, inifinitely more apt to seeking shelter in his mind, once Ezsett induced him to it. He wondered how exactly, if it were even possible, they were supposed to bring the telepath back.

* * *

Ken couldn't yell anymore.

His voice was hoarse—dry and strained—and he could feel the rawness of his throat when he tried to speak. He fought against his constraints, terrified by all the blood about him, and paused in his struggling only when a cool hand settled at his shoulder, pressing him down onto the bed. "Relax. It's not your blood."

The voice was collected and calm, and Ken found himself complying for a second before buckling fiercely against the bed.

He'd be damned if he stopped struggling after he knew he wasn't even injured to begin with.

The hand at his shoulder tightened bruisingly, and he was acutely aware of the chilling power in the man's grip. He stilled despite himself.

"That's better." the man was somewhere outside his field of vision. His voice lent him an image enough, however, and Ken hesitated against his better instincts. The man seemed as though he'd be easy enough to trust, but his hand was still tight against his shoulder, the nails curling inward, and Ken was hardplaced to find a more subtle type of threat.

"We'd just like to ask you some questions, is all."

Questions. About what?

"Questions about how you've been doing—about this little troublesome problem you've got…and maybe, if you're feeling up for it, questions about the telepath."

Mastermind? What the hell did Mastermind have to do with anything?

* * *

_Schuldich pressed in a little closer to Brad, burying his face in the harsh fabric of his gray trenchcoat. He felt the man's slight reciprocating touch at his hair and heaved out a heavy sigh. They were almost out. They __**were**__ out. _

_Brad had said that they had to be inconspicuous—prevent themselves from attracting attention, so Schuldich had very reluctantly gone at his mane with a pair of scissors and was currently attempting to recover from the trauma. His hair was cut short, barely curling around his ears and only just licking at the nape of his neck. Beside Brad, the small little boy stood, his hand still clasped firmly around the American's. _

_His large blue eyes stared up unblinkingly at the German, who in turn looked back curiously at the child, and the two shared something of a moment in their heads. Prodigy, it would seem, was a bit dazzled by the possibilities of telepathy, his mind reaching out tentatively towards Schuldich's, timidly probing to see if he could initiate a contact of his own. _

_Schuldich humored him despite his better judgment, looking around to find a sea of battered faces looking back, and searched out Brad's other hand. He may not have been much of a child anymore, but Brad was as close to any sort of parental figure as he'd ever had. _

_From the corner of his eye, he could very vaguely make out the albino, sitting calmly, gaze trained out the window, watching the scenary roll by._

* * *

"I take it you're well-acquainted with Schuldich, then?"

Ken frowned when the voice shifted—perhaps a little too quickly for him to register—and shook his head. "I don't know who you're talking about." His voice was rough and scalded.

"You don't?" there was mockery in the voice now, "But he's the very reason you're here. Don't you remember at all?"

The brunette struggled against his confines some more, feeling steel dig mercilessly into his wrists to reopen old wounds, and shook his head again.

"Well then, maybe I should tell you a story. Or should I wait until everyone gets here before I start?"

"It's just beyond those gates." Oracle's voice was soft, controlled—almost nostalgic somehow.

"And they know we're here?" Youji turned back toward the American, still not quite sure what to make of their momentary truce.

Prodigy nodded in answer to his question. "That's the only reason we've come this far. They're waiting for us."

Aya nodded, licking at his lips. "Are you coming?"

He had directed his question at Oracle, but Prodigy had been the one to reply. "It's our welcome home."

* * *

"He's not reacting."

"It's been a while since we last saw him. He's grown stronger." The words were said almost fondly.

"Will he come out before they arrive?"

"Not unless he wants to." There was a hint of a smile in the voice, "But we can take care of the others easily enough without him."

* * *

Once they moved beyond the gates, a quick hike brought them within viewing distance of the institution, and Aya found himself at a loss to stifle the awe he felt at beholding what was Rosencreuz. He caught a glance at Oracle's scowl and Prodigy's downcast eyes even as Youji and Omi stared admiringly at the imposing building.

Scratched in old, gothic text, foreboding and intimidating was a nameplate: ROSENKREUZ.

They had arrived.

He sensed that he was being probed from all angles, aware of a minor discomfort that seemed to echo a more metaphysical one, and drew in a sharp breath when he momentarily stumbled, righted only by an unsympathetic force. Prodigy turned dark blue eyes on him, the expression of warning on his face disquieting only in lieu of a deeper, simmering digust.

And suddenly, it became clear to him.

Rosenkreuz wasn't a place for them. This…_place_…wasn't for someone like him—for _humans_—insomuch as it was for the elite, for the supernatural. His presence wasn't a threat, it was an _inconvenience_. Subjugating—or even killing—him, or the rest of Weiss, was as simple as child's play.

And these were only the students.

Suddenly, the white walls and and bright lights seemed all the more sinister.

* * *

"I'm tired of waiting."

Ken licked at his lips, blinking chocolate eyes left and right, trying in vain to discern _something_ of his captor. "I'm tired of waiting and I want what's mine."

He was distinctly aware that there was someone else in the room—the blood that wasn't his was proof of it—and he had a dull, vague sort of notion of whom that was, though he was hesitant to accept it just as well.

"Ken—" the voice ceased to be placating, "I'm going to ask you a question, and I expect it to be answered, lest you want me to employ other means."

The brunette frowned, not pleased with the entreaty, and resolved to stay silent.

"Schuldich, as the boy is called now, what do you know of him?"

He bit his lip closed, refusing to answer, when a face suddenly loomed into his range of vision. "Don't test me, Ken."

Vaguely, perhaps subconsciously, he realized the face was familiar.

* * *

"It'll be downstairs." Oracle's voice was tight. "That's where the rooms are."

The rooms. Aya chanced a curious glance at Prodigy, hoping for an elaboration of sorts, but found none. The youth had quieted, dark blue eyes flickering across the hallway in a paranoid sort of way, and had shifted almost immediately closer toward the tall brunette.

Oracle paused, seemingly uncertain, and focused hazel eyes on Prodigy, "…Stay."

It wasn't an order, Aya noted absently, but more of a plea.

"Schuldich will need help."

_I won't leave you._

* * *

Ken stared up unblinkingly at his captor, consumed by an odd stirring in his mind.

Were Mastermind conscious, he might suppose it was his doing, but he realized it was a different sort of manipulation—though not necessarily a malicious one.

Frowning, he tried to fight a little against the invasion, aware of it only because of his experience with Mastermind, and closed his eyes unwittingly at a sudden exhaustion. But even then, with his vision swirling black and his consciousness dispersing, he saw the man's face as though it were suspended above him, unmoving and sinister.

And he remembered that face from somewhere, hypersensitive to it from some other time, recalling another lifetime when he'd been strapped to a gurney and poked at incessantly. And the only thing he'd seen _that_ time had been that face—that sinister expression, made mocking by its attempt to be soothing—and he recoiled from the familiarity of it all.

Even when he couldn't see anymore, product of the telepathy, the man's face was still vivid and lifelike before his blackened vision, sneering at him with white, pointed teeth.

It was as though the very image of it had been burned into his eyes.

The dark, curly hair framing an otherwise nondescript face; the menacing dark, brown eyes that had glittered maliciously when he'd tried to escape. He remembered it all from somewhere, and took in a sudden, choking breath as it all came crashing down on him.

He fought to surface in his realization, clawing at the surface—aware that he was drowning into a inky nothingness—and failed, muscles slackening and consciousness fading as he fell lifelessly back onto the gurney, vulnerable.

Vaguely, just before the very last vestiges of his mind drifted away, he wondered if Aya would know…

If Mastermind would know—

* * *

"So nice of you to join us."

The man had spoken only to Oracle, Aya realized, aware of the disparaging way in which he eyed Weiss. Despite his apparent distaste, however, there was a raking curiosity that was only vaguely veiled in his caramel eyes. He made brief eye contact with the redhead, turning away quickly when he did, and shifted his gaze more appreciatively on the remaining members of Schwarz. "Prodigy, Berserker." He nodded to each in turn.

He stepped away then, tailored suit clinging austerely to his long, slim legs, and gestured crisply toward a wide stage arranged before them, "…Welcome to the ceremony."

There was a brief hint of amusement in his tone, heightened by the way his eyes flickered toward Oracle in some remnant of an inside joke, and belied by a darker, more sinister sentiment. He smiled politely at Schwarz, seemingly thoughtful, before inclining his head toward a crumpled mass near the right. "That would be yours, Crawford."

The man stilled, studying Oracle with piercing, curious eyes. He was awaiting a reaction.

It was Mastermind, Aya realized, taking in sight of that wild, orange hair. He was curled in on himself, face hidden in his hands and by his hair. But even then, it was impossible to mistake the blood, and the bruises, and the cuts. His clothing was torn and rumpled.

Aya turned toward the raven-haired man, taking in the fury that briefly flitted in his hazel eyes. "I see you haven't been able to draw him out." His voice was wry, but smug. He raised a thin brow at the man standing a few feet before him, "…He was always too strong of a telepath for you to do _that_."

And there was a knowing glint in Crawford's eye that belied so much more.

Aya's eyes flickered briefly toward Prodigy for some sort of silent explanation, but found none. The youth was looking straight ahead, eyes trained intently on Oracle, seemingly just as perplexed by his insinuation as he had been.

"As you very well recall. I don't need to draw him out to have my way."

Oracle tightened at that, gaze returning to the immobile form at the right. His eyes hardened.

"A pity it couldn't have happened all those years ago." The tone was bemused then, but still expectant. The man was baiting him.

Oracle remained silent.

"You know," as he spoke, the man moved away, stepping closer toward Mastermind, "I always wondered why you took Schuldich with you. It wasn't as though he was up to par with the others," he made an encompassing gesture toward Prodigy and Berserker. "And he certainly wasn't _subtle_. And Ehrgeiz—"

The man paused, a peculiar gleam in his eye, torn between curious delight and irritation, "How did you manage _that_ of all things?"

"It was difficult," Oracle's tone was clipped. He watched on, dispassionately, as the man bent at the knee and brushed at the redhead's bangs, so as to allow him a better inspection of the damage. He smiled up at Oracle as this one took in the bloodied features, making a point of draping himself lewdly atop the German before standing.

He was always gauging, always pressing for _more_ from the precog.

"You made it seem quite simple. And controlling Berserker and Prodigy. I was expecting—"

"A disaster."

Aya let his gaze travel over the rest of Schwarz at that, trying hard to imagine the type of scenario the man was describing. He knew very little about Schwarz outside of what Kritiker had chosen to tell him, and he felt that his presence at Rosenkreuz—however unrequited and disregarded it might seem to be—was lending him privy to a multitude of privacies.

Like the relationship between Oracle and Mastermind.

There was something there, and it was obvious in the way Oracle stubbornly avoided the crumpled heap that was Mastermind, and in the way the tall man was trying so very hard to draw his attention to _him_. Aya had had a difficult time pinning the type of relationship between the two in the past, aware that it had always seemed to be a desperate sort of interaction, at least in Mastermind's part. The redhead always seemed to cling to Oracle for life itself—as though he were his anchor, his lifeline.

He wondered how that came to be.

The man nodded, momentarily allowing himself to focus on Prodigy, "…so very powerful, even then."

Blue eyes locked on caramel, looking forward steadfastly at the inspection. For a moment, there was a curious glint in the tall man's eyes, "…Do you remember me?"

"Yes." The answer was soft, composed. Prodigy turned blue eyes on Oracle slowly before speaking, his voice deliberate, "I remember _everything._"

And there was a threat in the assurance, though the rest of him remained just at quiet and tranquil as he had been the entire time.

The man straightened at that, brow raised condescendingly in the first sign of discomfiture Aya had witnessed since they had arrived. "It would do you well to forget _some_ things, at least."

There was no answer.

* * *

"Braun."

"Crawford?"

Crawford paused, trying to gauge the man's temperament. He hadn't changed much since he had seen him last. He was still vengeful, vindictive in that way that had always fascinated him, but there was a certain latency in his actions that was putting him on edge. Braun had never been one for dramatics, and his entire manner—stage included—was striking him as strange. He looked back to Schuldich despite himself.

"Crawford?"

"Where are they?"

There was no need for clarification. Anyone who had been at Rosenkreuz long enough knew well enough who_ they_ were. The German's fears whilst at the institution hadn't been unique or unfounded; most of the students lived in constant fear of _them_.

Braun shrugged, not particularly forward about his answer. His eyes flickered skeptically towards Weiss, "I'm more curious about them, to be honest."

"They're here for the human."

Brad could almost sense Abyssinian's disapproval at his choice of words, presumably bristling at his having said _humans_ in so disparaging a tone.

"Oh?" Braun turned towards Weiss, this time allowing himself a full perusal, "…these are the ones from Kritiker's experiment?"

Crawford shook his head minutely, "Just the one."

"Hmm," Braun smiled at Bombay, inclining his head in a mockery of what had been his greeting to Prodigy, "…how'd that go?"

"By whom's standards am I to judge?"

"Rosenkreuz's, of course."

Brad allowed himself a sarcastic reply, "…Brilliantly of course. Blood everywhere," his eyes narrowed, "…just like all those years ago."

At that, Braun smiled sincerely, "A success, then." He offered Abyssinian an apologetic shrug, guessing right at Weiss' leadership.

Abyssinian launched forward at that, growl forming low in his throat, but had barely moved when he stilled. Crawford frowned, aware of what had happened and hoping the man would understand. It was for his own good. He glared menacingly at Balinese and Bombay when these made to move to Abyssinian's aid, forbidding their participation with a single glance.

Braun patted Prodigy on the shoulder with a fond expression, "Much appreciated."

"You know," the man turned caramel eyes on Abyssinian by way of explanation, "we had nothing to do with that."

The 'we' was all-encompassing.

"In fact, unless I'm recalling incorrectly, we wanted nothing to do with them." Braun looked to Brad for agreement.

Despite himself, Crawford nodded. Rosenkreuz didn't make it their priority to negotiate with humans unless there was something to be gained.

"The Gift was to be used solely to further Eszett's ends."

That part was true, too.

Crawford met Abyssinian's eyes, aware that this one was looking to him for confirmation. He nodded.

"Why give it to Ken, then?" Balinese had spoken, and his voice was steady despite his expression.

Braun raised a brow, as though the answer were obvious, "Why _not_?"

Caramel eyes locked on hazel in a martyred expression of sympathy. "Kritiker _obviously_ thought they had something to gain from it, and Rosenkreuz must've thought the association with Kritiker would've been worth something. They had nothing to lose, in any event. And Eszett—" Braun focused his eyes uncertainly on Brad again, "Eszett probably relished the opportunity to destroy _something_ of mankind."

Braun frowned, seemingly unsure as to why everyone was so distressed about the brunette.

"Where is he?" Crawford asked only for Abyssinian's benefit. He had a fairly good inkling that Siberian couldn't be far off. They wouldn't have chanced to keep their two high-profile prisoners away from each other. That would introduce too many variables.

Braun gestured toward Schuldich again, waving his hand impatiently this time, "…We were told not to harm him."

He glanced at Crawford, as though wanting an answer of sorts.

Crawford raised a fine brow, just barely making out the form of the brunette, on the opposite side of the stage, hidden only by a thick, draping linen. He was tied to a gurney—eyes bandaged, mouth gagged—and was seemingly unconscious. "Eszett wanted him for the trade-off," Braun paused, flickering his gaze toward Abyssinian, "…with Kritiker."

He could see the uncertain look in Abyssinian's eyes.

Persia was dead. They had killed him.

Braun's voice was quiet when he spoke next. "The altar is ready," he paused, "…but we only need one sacrifice." He turned toward Abyssinian, regarding him momentarily.

Crawford remained still. He was aware of the implications in his tone. "We all have to make _some_ sacrifices," Braun's caramel eyes lingered on the German's frame in an obvious bid, "…but better some than others. Some people are just _expendable._"

Braun smiled as he trained his eyes back on him. "Just the one sacrifice."

Crawford couldn't win, he realized. He could trade Siberian's life easily for Schuldich's, but Schuldich would still be lost, insofar as Braun and Eszett were concerned. If it wasn't now, then it was later.

Bitterly, he realized he had set the stage for the sacrifice.

* * *

It made perfect sense, Aya realized, taking in the sight of the brunette before him. It had made perfect sense all along. Kritiker had needed a link—an alliance to Eszett to ensure its own survival in case things didn't work out. And Ken had been that sacrifice—that _insurance_ policy that Kritiker so needed.

Absently, he remembered the brunette's file, recalling how very detailed the observations had been, and how long the man had been scouted before his recruital. Ken hadn't _joined_ Weiss. He had been primed and prepped for the job since before he had even conceived of his future. The orphanage, Kase, the J-League—all of that had been arranged to ensure that things happened as planned.

His disease, his involvement in Weiss—it was all to appease Eszett.

To appease Eszett and to save Kritiker.

He had been ceremoniously clothed and bathed and placed before the sacrificial altar.

All that was left was the final libation.

* * *

Crawford had known, even all those years ago when they'd only barely plotted their escape, that Schuldich would never stand a chance. Rosenkreuz wanted him—_needed_ him—in all the wrong ways. What was more, _Eszett_ wanted him, and—like Brad had guessed when he'd made the telepath's acquaintance—he was entirely expendable. Powerful, yes, but nonetheless _expendable._

And that consideration had been made too long ago to count—back when Rosenkreuz still had some token interest in the man.

Their escape from Rosenkreuz had offered mixed benefits at best. Though it had suggested the beginnings of freedom, it also signaled the end of their training—training which Schuldich needed much more than Brad ever would. The redhead was young and indisciplined, both in age and in Gift, and a longer stint at Rosenkreuz—despite all its horrors—would have proved useful to his developing powers. Schuldich had been left with stunted potential, to develop his powers as he might, with little guidance or instruction otherwise.

Brad had known, then—just as he knew now—that Schuldich would never be forgiven for his transgression. Crawford was of an old stock, the type to be excused with a minor punishment, but Schuldich—the man had never been a favorite of the academy, and even as a student his involvement had been only grudgingly allowed. Rosenkreuz was, for all its social radicalism, an institution founded entirely on money and aesthetics. The redhead was a blemish on the reputation of the academy, and his entire refusal to conform to Rosenkreuz's standards did little to help his acceptance.

To his advantage, he was powerful—enough to intrigue the ambitious bastards overseeing the institution, at least—and he was _gorgeous_. He didn't have the typical sort of effeminate allure that seemed to be the favorite of the instructors, but he was rough, and coarse and rude, and that held with it an entirely different appeal of its own. To make matters worse, Schuldich seemed to be driven wholly by his libido, be he unaware of it or not, and everything the redhead did, correlatedly, was saturated with sex and lust. His movements, his hair, his eyes—they always smouldered with a lingering desire.

Crawford had always assumed that it was a character trait that hadn't been all that positively cultivated by his former prostitution—though the redhead fervently denied he had ever even been a prostitute—and had dismissed it as unimportant. But it hadn't been—not when it made Schuldich all the more of a desirable _protégé_. And certainly not when it made Rosenkreuz deride him all the more for it.

Schuldich spoke little about the time he had spent at Rosenkreuz without him, but the way the instructors looked at him, the way they _sneered_ at him. It was enough for him to know.

Schuldich hadn't been as much of a student at Rosenkreuz as he had been an allowance—a source of mockery, but an excusable one—and one that had been exploited so long as it had been allowed. The aesthetics of that had changed when he'd become involved, but Eszett's plans hadn't. They had thought, perhaps correctly at the time, that Schuldich was a diversion to Brad—just another rising student who wanted a taste of the benefits his loyalty to the institution could reap. And maybe, they had hoped that Schuldich's association with him would tame the redhead—make him _useful_.

They would never have expected their escape. Not when Brad had been such a complacent student.

Still, even then, Brad had questioned the redhead's ability for survival.

Nagi wouldn't be a problem. Even as a child, he had been too strong for Rosenkreuz to control; _Prodigy_ had been as acceptable a moniker as they could have been able to manage. And Nagi, unlike Schuldich, was cultured—quiet in that introspective, intellectual way that the academy loved. He wasn't brash or irrational, and there was a submissiveness about him that would trick anyone into underestimating him. Besides, his power was _not_ expendable. Not by any means.

Berserker was another story entirely. Rosenkreuz hadn't known what to do with him years ago; it was unlikely they'd know what to do with him now. His saving grace would likely only be his devotion to Brad, and even then, that loyalty didn't imply absolute obedience. The key to managing Farfarello, he had understood early on, was to just let him be. Offer him boundaries, and maybe _hope_ that he would stick to them. But certainly not to command anything of him. The man would do as he liked.

But Schuldich…

Schuldich's problem was that he wouldn't conform—neither then, nor now.

Even when his spirit was broken, there was a mockery about him—about his replies and his dripping sarcasm. He was careless about authority figures, and rarely gave a damn about routine. He was the very mark of what the institution stood against.

And ironically, he had been allowed to survive only because they needed him.

And now, they didn't need him anymore.

Crawford turned hazel eyes at the redhead before him, a heavy frown pulling at his lips.

His first mistake had been crossing Braun.

* * *

_He had met the redhead in one of the chambers, having been called there by Brecht and instructed to witness a session. As one of the higher-ranking students, he was often privy to the darker happenings at Rosenkreuz, and the underground sessions with the new recruits were no different. _

_He had witnessed a few, though none so brutal as the one with the redhead, and had never been too particular to them, but was hardpressed to neglect orders. _

_When he arrived, it had already begun. _

_The recruit was younger than he had assumed, tall and thin, with a disheveled mane of hair and flickering emerald eyes. Those eyes had flashed to him upon his entry, taking in the whole of him with surprise, and Crawford had seen the way the boy had relaxed. As though there were some reprieve in his presence. "Herr Brecht?"_

"_Crawford." The man had nodded curiously at him, seemingly just as aware of the change in the boy's demeanor. _

_He was about to inquire when he felt the tell-tale prickling at his consciousness, and frowned, "…a telepath." _

_Again, the boy stilled, this time marveling at his words. Emerald eyes studied him intently, wide and curious, but suspicious and shielded_ _just the same. "His name?"_

"_Schuldich. Or so he says." Brecht considered the youth absently, "They haven't been able to read his mind." _

_Crawford nodded, a little mesmerized despite himself. The boy was young, but there was something distinctly jaded about him—something he couldn't quite place. And then, suddenly, there it was, plain as day. _

_The redhead seemed to realize Brad's interest just as soon as he had inadvertedly realized it himself, and a lewd, knowing grin spread itself across the boy's lips. His eyes smouldered suddenly, darkening in lust, and he shifted minutely away from his guards, twisting into a slouching, beckoning position. Brad raised a brow. _

"_He's a prostitute," Brecht muttered, displeased by the show, "they found him just outside the streets of Rhine-Ruhr."_

"_Oh?" Brad turned his eyes back on the German, who was smiling suggestively at him, seemingly biding his time. _

"…_His victims enjoyed it." _

"_Victims?"_

"_He's a killer, too," Brecht paused again, not sure if he should be satisfied or disturbed by the fact._

"_How old is he?"_

"_Only five years younger than you are. Looks younger. Works to his advantage, I suppose." _

_Brecht brushed faded blonde locks from his eyes, scrutinizing him, "You should've been here earlier." _

_Brad didn't have to ask to know what had transpired. Despite the wide grin spread across the telepath's face, the American could make out the very beginnings of a black eye and busted lip. There was a cut at his brow from which he was bleeding, and tell-tale bruises at his arms. _

"_Braun's on his way," he added unnecessarily. _

_Crawford nodded, not quite sure why Brecht had felt the need to inform him of the fact. He turned his eyes back to the recruit, who was looking amusedly back at him, and frowned. "Is he always like that?" _

"_No." _

_No?_

_Brecht glared at the telepath despite himself, "Only since you've arrived. He's calmed down, to be honest." _

_That hadn't been much of a surprise. Crawford had found that he tended to have that effect on people. Maybe that's why Brecht made a habit of inviting him to these things. Brecht considered him for a moment, before nodding curtly, "Maybe it's time_ _we allowed you a responsibility." _

_Crawford turned hazel eyes on the youth that was now sitting quietly across from him, no need for restraining in his compliance. That infuriating smile was still on his lips, but his eyes had changed. They were curious, uncertain. It seemed as though he were trying to gauge his personality, determine how much of him he could trust. Crawford felt the prickling at the edge of his mind begin anew. He frowned. _

"_With the telepath?"_

"_He can't read you can he?"_

"_No." _

_Emerald eyes drooped a little at the assertion. _

_Brecht nodded, "…We'll see then." _

_He had left then, dismissed, and offered a curt nod to Braun when this one entered. The minute the door closed behind him, he heard the very beginnings of a scuffle and a multitude of profanities begin. There was a nasal quality to the German's voice, he noted absently, as this one rose louder in volume, calling out—surprisingly—to him. _

_He frowned as he moved further away, remembering the youth's suggestive smile. _

_He had met with Brecht a few weeks later, at his request, to discuss the German. _

"_He's uncontrollable," the man muttered with a grimace, "even by Braun's standards. He's starting to lose his patience."_

_Braun? __**Patience?**__ Crawford wondered briefly why on earth the telepath was still alive if he had crossed Braun. _

"_His sexual quips help, I suppose, and you know Braun," there was a brief uncertain flicker to his eyes then, as Brecht wasn't sure how much of the illicit happenings at Rosenkreuz Crawford had been exposed to, "but even then, I can't figure out if he's a strong one or not. It doesn't help that no one can read him." _

"_I don't understand the trouble." _

"_There seems to be something stunting his progress." _

_Brecht paused, massaging at his temples in a forlorn gesture, "I think it's because he's too strong—the fact that no one can breach his wall worries me, but it's a sign of his strength at the very least—but I think he's lost…his barriers." _

"_Oh?"_

"_I think that's why he has trouble concentrating—using his power." _

"_Because he can't control it." _

"_Because it's too strong," Brecht frowned, "No one agrees with me."_

"_They think he's not strong __**enough**__. That that's the reason why he can't handle the exercises." _

_Brecht nodded, rummaging around his desk for the German's folder, "He's not weak, by any means. And those murders I was telling you about, he didn't use weapons." _

_Brecht turned his eyes abruptly on Crawford, "I don't think he's weak at all." _

"_But Braun thinks otherwise." _

_It was difficult to miss the displeasure on Brecht's face. The man was one of the few at the institution that Brad would chance to say wasn't entirely black-hearted in his endeavors. He was just at the wrong place, at the wrong time, he supposed. _

"_Braun thinks he'd make a good diversion." _

"_And waste of talent."_

_Brecht nodded, hesitating before beckoning him forward, "…He can't control him."_

"_You mean the telepath?"_

"_He can't control him at all. And the lessons end in punishment most of the time. The telepath's been stubborn. He refuses instruction. He barely eats. And if the guards manage to pry something into his mouth, he manages to pry something into __**their**__ mouths and they end up dead, if you understand my implications."_

"_Perfectly." _

"_I mentioned your power over him to Scrir."_

_Scrir? He was involved with the telepath, too?_

_Brecht nodded a little at his look, "You were the only one that managed to calm him, even if he still kept up with that infuriating charade. He started up the minute you left." _

_Crawford nodded, remembering the screams. "Where is he now?" he asked suddenly, curious. He hadn't seen the youth since their first meeting._

"_With Braun." The tone was mildly apologetic. Nevermind the implications. _

_Crawford nodded, remembering the way those dark, emerald eyes had relaxed in his presence. _

"_He's claimed him."_

"_Schuldich?"_

_Brecht nodded, "I'd prefer if it weren't the case. Scrir's looking into it now." _

_They were planning on taking Braun's toy away? Were they insane?_

"_It would help if you asked." It wasn't so much a suggestion as it was a covert command. _

_Crawford frowned, not sure how he was supposed to maneuver his way out of that one. He didn't want to cross Braun—his mentor, technically—but he certainly didn't want to chance angering Brecht. The man had more leverage in Rosenkreuz, though it was admittedly a __**different**__ sort of leverage than the kind that Braun possessed. _

_He nodded. _

_Scrir had wanted to see with his own eyes whether or not Crawford really was capable of controlling the telepath. He had sat in on a few sessions with Braun already, much too his dismay, and had come to the general conclusion that the telepath was thoroughly uncontrollable. Furthermore, because no one could really discern the extent of his power (or lack thereof), he had become expendable to the academy, insofar as testing and experimentation were concerned. _

_The German was, in short, destined to become little more than a pet to quench the desires of the faculty. His origin didn't help matters much in that regard. It seemed as though the redhead was more than willing to comply when it came to those types of matters, though he did have his restrictions. Braun seemed to be one of them. _

_Crawford had nodded to the tall, imposing man once he'd arrived, taking in the short, cropped brown hair and intimidating brown eyes. He was as severe in appearance as he was in temperament, and Crawford knew Scrir was of a difficult sort to deal with. He was a conservative, of the sort who believed that Rosenkreuz should function for the betterment of Rosenkreuz and not be a puppet of Eszett. That stock would disappear in coming years. _

"_Crawford." The man inclined his head. _

"_Herr Scrir," Crawford gestured for the man to lead the way, following silently a few steps behind. He didn't know where the telepath was being held, else he would have set the path. Scrir turned towards him, small brown eyes trailing curiously about his form. _

"_He's unmanageable, that one. I'm surprised you requested him, to be honest." _

_Brad frowned. Of course he was surprised he'd requested him. He had never made a point of asking for anything, much less questioning authority figures above him. He could only imagine the wrath Braun would incur on him should the redhead choose to cooperate with him. "I'd just like to help Rosenkreuz in whatever way I may." _

_He returned the man's heavy gaze unflinchingly, wondering when the hell he became such an apt liar. _

_Scrir nodded, making a sudden move to the right, "He's being held here temporarily," there was a bit of a smile coupled with the statement, "the guards weren't able to get him downstairs last night." _

_Crawford nodded, not sure why the statement was amusing, and entered to the sounds of violent scuffling, cursing, and all-around chaos. _

_His steps were stark against the white marble of the holding room, and the telepath stilled immediately at his entry. The German's voice was softer than he remembered, sharp and airy, "Crawford!" He seemed pleased. _

_Scrir glanced curiously at him, having been exposed to the telepath's antics already, and surprised by his sudden civility. _

_Crawford inclined his head politely, not sure what to expect exactly, when the redhead shifted closer, relaxing in that boneless way he had the first time they'd met. He settled himself in the chair Scrir proffered and turned hazel eyes on emerald. The German was positively enthralled. _

_There was an energy about his frame visible in the way he moved about constantly, and his eyes were upturned and lax at the corners. There was a fresh bruise on his cheek from where he'd been hit earlier, and his mouth was purple and swollen. Crawford could very barely make out a hard, red blemish on his neck. _

_The redhead scratched at his head, smiling uncertainly when Crawford made no comment, and shifted about nervously again. _

"_He's thrown off by his inability to read you," Scrir noted unnecessarily. _

_The German sniffed at Scrir's comment, turning his chair away from the man with a loud scratching sound, and smiled at Brad again. His expression was lacking the devious sexuality it had had in their first meeting; at the moment, he was all hesitant smiles and vulnerable enthusiasm. _

"_Why are you so excited to see me?"_

_The telepath brightened suddenly, then—as though surprised—turned curious eyes on him. "You really don't know?"_

_Crawford shook his head. _

_Schuldich offered him a contemplative look as he leaned forward conspiratorily. "I can't hear the voices when you're around." _

_Scrir straightened at that, regarding the telepath intently. _

_Schuldich nodded, locking his eyes on Brad's, "It's the first time someone takes away the voices." And his own voice was quiet, barely heard. _

_The telepath turned to Scrir, chair loudly scratching across the floor once more, "I can think when he's around." _

_And the way he spoke made Crawford think that he knew exactly why he and Scrir were there. His brow quirked as he considered the possibilities of Schuldich as a strong telepath; maybe Brecht was right. _

"_Do you like Brad?" Scrir's voice was careful, thoughtful._

"_Brad? Is that his name?" The redhead looked more pleased than he had earlier, and for a moment, Brad thought he saw a mischievous glint in the youth's eye. _

_Scrir nodded. "Brad Crawford." _

"_Hello, Brad Crawford." The smile on his face was mocking now, and Crawford understood. _

"_Hello, Schuldich."_

* * *

_Schuldich had been unceremoniously deposited at his room a few days later, wicked grin spread across his lips, and coiled mass of latent sexuality just waiting to spring at him. There were fresh remnants of Braun's abuse on him, he noted, taking in the darkened bruise under the German's eye, and his broken lips. His cheeks were likewise discolored, and under his clothes, once the telepath had stripped for a mandatory bath, there were a myriad of other suggestive marks. _

_Braun had made sure to brand the telepath, if only temporarily, before handing him over to Brad. _

"_I can read his mind, you know," Schuldich's voice had been disinterested, regarding him carefully from his perch by the floor. _

"_Brauns's?" __**There**__ was a surprise. Not many of the students could do that. _

_Schuldich nodded, licking his lips and looking away, "…He hates you."_

_As if that weren't obvious. _

"_Can you read mine?"_

"_No." _

_There had been a distinct pout in his voice when he had answered. _

_And then, softer, "…What did he do to you?"_

_And emerald eyes had turned to him, serious for the first time since he'd seen them, and the telepath had frowned._

* * *

"Well?"

Crawford glanced momentarily at Abyssinian, taking in the uncertainty that lingered in his amethyst eyes, and frowned despite himself. "No."

Beside him, he could see Nagi stiffen. It didn't seem like a fair tradeoff, but then again, Nagi didn't understand the implications of what Braun was proposing. The boy wouldn't question him, though. He never would.

Still, it was difficult—interaction with Schwarz without having the German's ever-present telepathy as a guide.

Braun's features tightened minutely, "I have no qualms about handing him over, Crawford."

Brad nodded, aware of the fact, but glad—if only—that Schuldich was safe within the confines of his mind. There, he could feel no pain, no distress. He would be nothing but murky pleasure, stretched thin with nothing to encumber him. "We'll wait for them, then."

And his tone was severe, resigned.

* * *

Aya studied the way Prodigy straightened at Oracle's assertion, presumably surprised that he were refusing a tradeoff that would leave the telepath alive. Aya might've been awed by Oracle's humanity if it weren't for the nagging feeling that there was something else afoot.

There was something going on between Oracle and Braun—something that not even the rest of Schwarz seemed to know.

* * *

He knew they had arrived the moment Schuldich groaned.

The telepath stirred suddenly, curling in on himself with a trembling, feeble moan. His fingertips—caked with blood—twitched, and his hands came to his hair, where they clenched bruisingly at his head. His body, battered as it already was, shuddered in a series of spasms that paralleled his internal struggle.

Suddenly, his breathing hitched, and an expression of pain overtook his bruised features. He remained there—back arched and fingers clenched—poised as though momentarily frozen, before his eyes snapped open, a visible horror burning in their emerald depths. There was confusion, and uncertainty, and then growing despair as the tears gathered in his eyes, a distinct, familiar panic beginning to settle into his being.

"Crawford—" His voice was a terrified, whispered plea, and emerald eyes flickered edgily about, seeking him out, afraid to face _them_ without him.

And his eyes finally settled on hazel, and the telepath seemingly crumpled before him, burying his face in his arms and trying to crawl back into the silence. He was awake, and all the torture that he hadn't felt earlier, was about to return with a vengeance.

_Crawford?_

And he nodded, relishing the voice that rang clear in his head, aching a little at the obvious fear in Schuldich's expression.

_Where are we?_

And he knew, even as he approached the telepath, wrapping his arms about his waist and hoisting him up in a single move, that the man already knew. He could feel it in the way Schuldich clung to him, fingertips curling tightly against the fabric of his blazer, lips pressed feverishly to his neck, mind clawing instinctively at his own, yearning for the silence his mind had always proffered.

He held the redhead tightly to his chest, pulling him along despite the distinct warning in Braun's expression, and felt a sickening wave of disgust when his hands—flat along the plane of Schuldich's back as they were—came back slick with blood. But the German couldn't feel the pain, not yet. He was too panicked.

"Schuldich. The link," his voice was plaintive, and he stroked reassuringly at the man's hair with his request.

Schuldich nodded, head still buried within the crook of his neck.

"Siberian—" Schuldich's voice was tense, but the terror in it was beginning to fade.

Crawford caught the way Abyssinian tightened at the mention of his comrade. "Siberian. The Gift—"

And the telepath paused suddenly, hands flying bruisingly to his head as he weakened against him. Instinctively, Brad brought the German closer, his arms tight and constraining about Schuldich's middle. He flicked his eyes about, trying to gauge where the others would make their entrance, and paused when he caught sight of a grand, heavy oak door just beyond the stage.

His breath left him suddenly when he realized what was happening.

* * *

He had seen Ken almost as soon as he had caught Oracle's alarmed exhalation of breath.

_Get him._

The words, whispered in his mind, were accompanied only by an unsympathetic pair of hard, hazel eyes. Nevertheless, he moved, propelled by instinct—by the adrenaline in his veins—managing to evade Braun only by Prodigy's aid, and falling to the floor just inches of where the brunette lay, covered by a coarse coir throw.

He attempted to wake the man, nudging desperately at his shoulder, frowning when the whispering voice returned—more frantic, urging him to hurry.

He could hear Braun's fury at being held captive, strong guttural growls escaping his lips in a series of short, clipped tones, but most important to him was Ken, who wasn't responding. He pushed at the man's chocolate bangs, trying to peer into his eyes—they were open, but seemingly blank—and let out a forlorn cry of his own when his attempts yielded no results.

_Just bring him here. Bring him back. _

And the voice was different that time, softer—weaker, and his curious eyes met with bright emerald when they flickered anxiously about. He nodded, understanding, and pulled Ken into his arms, rising to his feet and scattering about the marble floor back to where the others were waiting.

Back to where Oracle was holding Mastermind protectively against his chest.

Back to where Mastermind was staring intently at him, his eyes more vulnerable than usual, their expression belying that he knew something of great interest to him; that he knew something about Ken. About the 'Gift.'

And just when his muscles began to falter—the after-effects of the adrenaline setting in—the doors flung open, and his world turned black.

* * *

He had anticipated it happening, but he had been unsure of how to prepare for it, either way. He had known it had been reckless to bring Weiss along; they were formidable allies in their own right, but they were useless against Eszett.

Crawford stiffened, aware of the way Nagi mirrored his movement, and tried to set Schuldich back on his feet.

They could afford no weaknesses. They could _show_ no weaknesses.

"Nagi." His voice was authoritative. Unaffected.

He caught the nod the boy offered him, blue eyes trained exclusively on the shrouded figures that had appeared before them.

"Take care of them." And it was clear that he meant Weiss, because there'd be no way Nagi would be able to eliminate Eszett on his own. Nagi was the strongest among them, save perhaps for Schuldich, as Brad's own gift was largely useless on the battlefield, his visions coming of their own accord with no regard to him.

Still, it was suicide to attempt to face Eszett so brazenly. So…_arrogantly._

"Crawford."

He inclined his head slightly in greeting, tense and ready to retaliate, aware of the vengeful way Braun was eyeing him.

"And…is that Schuldich?"

He didn't miss the longing in the voice, nor did Braun, apparently, who stiffened.

For a moment, he straightened, suspicious. He had recognized the second voice that had spoken. He could likewise sense the recognition in Schuldich—in the way the redhead tensed beside him, hand squeezing desperately about his wrist—

As if to say that he, too, recognized the voice.

As if to say that, maybe, he not only recognized the voice, but knew exactly who it belonged to.

Brad nodded, gesturing towards Nagi and Farfarello with a frown, "…and Prodigy and Berserker, if you remember them."

He had no doubt that they did.

Nagi and Farfarello had been amongst the strongest at Rosenkreuz.

As he spoke, his eyes swept about the cloaked group, taking in the dark brown shrouds—of the same coir fabric Siberian had been wrapped in—and counting.

Six. There were six of them.

He frowned, trying to remember something that was escaping him.

At his right, Nagi took a sudden step forward, an echoing suspicion swimming in his bright blue eyes.

* * *

"_But why should he know Eszett?" Schuldich scampered suddenly off his bed, face seeming strangely haggard as framed by his messily cropped orange hair._

_Brad shrugged, removing his glasses and rubbing wearily at the bridge of his nose. _

_It had unnerved him, too, he would admit—Prodigy's knowledge of Eszett. _

_Schuldich persisted, fingertips curling bruisingly about the skin of his forearm, "…He's been held all his life, you said. There's no reason for him to know. He's never made it beyond the downstairs chambers." _

_Crawford nodded, aware of the facts. He very vaguely remembered the way the child had placed his hand in his, matter-of-factly telling him that Eszett had been behind it. But behind what, exactly? _

_Behind the infecting of the students at Rosenkreuz with the Gift?_

_But those being held in the downstairs chambers shouldn't even have had access to that kind of information. _

_Especially not a kid who had never been let out. Prodigy wasn't even a telepath. _

"_Crawford!" Schuldich's voice was urgent, and his emerald eyes were fervent. "There's no reason he should know about them!"_

_Brad frowned, concerned about the matter but likewise irritated by the German's desperation. He wished he had more time to think things out; he had a feeling he was missing out on some bigger picture—on something Prodigy knew without necessarily being aware of it._

"_I read his mind today," Schuldich grumbled, rubbing at his hair in a nervous habit, settling himself back on Brad's bed, "…and it's not normal, Crawford. It's not normal at all." _

"_What? No honey this time around?"_

_He ignored Schuldich's heated glare. _

"_He has the weirdest sort of memories. They're not so much memories as they are thoughts. It's like he's filed them away as memories." _

_The American's brows furrowed at the revelation, and he leaned forward, curious to ascertain exactly what the redhead was suggesting. _

"_It's like he's replaced his experiential memories with thoughts. With theories—a multitude of them." Schuldich frowned, pulling his knees to his chest and settling his chin atop them. "And I can't tell if they're real, or made up…or if the things floating about in his memory are actually what he heard or what he __**thinks**__he heard."_

"…_His memories aren't trust-worthy, is what you're trying to say." _

_Schuldich frowned, biting a little at his lower lip, "…no. Not exactly. His memories…are all warped by his age. He has no concept of figurative expression; everything he hears, he's filed away literally as some memory. An __**actual**__ memory. Not a thought—"_

"_And Eszett?"_

"_That's the point…" Schuldich paused, seemingly gathering his thoughts, "…his memories about them are…difficult to describe." _

_He turned bright emerald eyes on hazel, "…They're all liquid memories, Crawford—flowing from one to the next. But I can't figure out if it's because Eszett's been involved with him…or because they aren't memories at all." _

_Crawford's eyes narrowed as he stared unblinkingly back at the redhead, taking in the burdening purple shadows beneath his eyes. "So what about them?"_

"…_Well. There's a fixed number of them. And they gather regularly."_

_Brad nodded, having suspected as much. _

"_But they gather at __**Rosenkreuz**__, Brad. According to his memories, they gather at Rosenkreuz." _

"_So?"_

"_So?" Schuldich groaned, "So it's not that they're __**gathering**__ at Rosenkreuz…it's that they're usually __**at**__ Rosenkreuz."_

_Brad considered the implications of that. "How many are there, exactly?"_

"_His visions vary about the exact count," Schuldich shifted again, throwing himself backward so he could stare uninhibitedly at the ceiling, "…but it's never any more than three." _

"_Just three?"_

_The redhead nodded, closing his eyes and swimming in Prodigy's disjointed memory. "But I don't know. It could just as well be something he heard." _

"_Where did they gather in Rosenkreuz, exactly?"_

_Schuldich raised his head minutely, turning so that his gaze met Crawford's, "…in the chambers. In a hidden room beyond Prodigy's cell." _

"_So then—"_

"_Then Farfarello should know, too. He should have been able to hear what Prodigy heard. All of the ones downstairs would know."_

* * *

_AN: The storyline/plot shifts at the beginning and end of chapters might read oddly, but that's because I don't write IFO by chapters, but as a free-flowing sort of sequence. So, technically, each chapter isn't so much a chapter as it is a portion of the overall story. I've given up saying this is the last chapter. Just know that the story's completely written at this point. _

REVIEW!!

* * *


	22. Eikonos

**_In Fear OF  
_**_The Weaver Atropos  
__Chapter 22 - Eikonos_

* * *

Nagi narrowed his eyes, unaccustomed but likewise uninhibited in his decision to approach Braun.

"Prodigy," Braun studied him carefully from beneath a fringe of dark brown bangs, "…you'd do well to halt your advance."

Undeterred, Nagi continued forward, power flaring dangerously about him, showcasing itself in the pulsing waves that sent his hair floating about him. His fury was a quiet one, and his eyes were just as dull and as lacking as they had always been, but there was an obvious anger burning in these, and a raging, positive suspicion lurking in them. He growled when one of the shrouded figures threatened to approach, bearing his teeth and tapping into his powers to send a gale shuttling towards his attackers. These scattered—forewarned by their own powers—but made no move for a counter-attack.

But there was no need for it.

Already, the memories that had been eluding him since they'd stepped into Rosenkreuz had returned with a vengeance, and with these, a realization that he was sure the others suspected. The words were already at the very tip of his consciousness—where he was sure Schuldich and Braun could hear them—and he straightened with a frown before swinging his arm furiously to his right, a telekinetic surge of power accompanying the movement. "You're no Eszett."

His voice was deathly quiet.

He snapped blue eyes on Schuldich—intent on conveying the message—but the telepath had already read what he needed to hear, and turned menacingly towards the group before them, malicious smile twisting onto his lips at the news.

He made to speak, brow raised mockingly despite the hand that clenched painfully at his bleeding abdomen, when Farfarello interrupted, stepping to Nagi's side. His voice was husky—raspy with disuse—and his only visible gold eye glittered about excitedly, taking in the sight of the impending massacre. His hands were twitching absently for his knives, reflexively tightening and loosening. There was a madness palpable about him, visible in the too-calm way he regarded his prey. "…The sacrifice for Eszett has been set," he agreed, fixing his gaze particularly on Braun, vague swirlings of recognition visible in his gold eye, "But the sacrificial lambs are six, not two," his expression hardened minutely, mouth twisting into a misshapen attempt at a smile, "…the Eszett have always been of only the blessed number. You are men, and nothing more."

Schuldich straightened at that, eyes crinkling slightly about the edges with his effort, and he smiled a little when he heard the faint stirrings behind them. Had Braun's group really been Eszett, awaking the Weiss would have been impossible; even with his strength, Schuldich was no match for Eszett.

Abyssinian was the first to rise, amethyst eyes skittering about, trying to gauge at the situation and attempting to determine what had happened as they had slept. Beside him, Balinese rose, jade eyes turning curiously towards Schuldich, trailing down his form and taking in the blood all around him. His gaze shifted slowly back to Siberian, where he took in the man's blood-splattered cheeks and torso, and his lips tightened minutely at the realization that it was all Mastermind's blood.

Schuldich was still gripping at his middle, blood seeping steadily through his fingertips and gathering in a growing pool at his feet, distracting enough for Farfarello to glance occasionally at him, his bloodlust held in check only by his loyalty. He smiled lazily at Balinese, his lips quirked in a seductive little smile, before looking away, shifting a little closer to Crawford as he watched Braun approach.

They had to be smart about things.

If Braun was being truthful, then Kritiker would be arriving for the trade-off, though Schuldich genuinely doubted they'd linger when they realized what was going on. At best, they could expect a few warning shots from them before the men disappeared, likely cursing Persia for his insistence.

Still, Schuldich was wary of the other men. He knew Braun was a telepath—he'd felt the man's invasive mind in the past, often despite himself—but he knew little else of the others. They hadn't attacked yet, save for the one who had lunged at Nagi, and Schuldich was uncertain if their passivity had anything to do with their power or…lack of it.

Braun was strong, but decidedly average. There was nothing particularly amazing about his telepathy. No, his appeal to Rosenkreuz leaders had been his ambition—his ruthlessness. The man was cold-blooded and calculating; he was the type that would go great lengths to get what he wanted. And once he was sure something was _his_, he was infinitely more inclined to abuse it.

Schuldich met the man's gaze unflinchingly, wincing only when the wound at his abdomen twinged, his fingers coated in thickening layers of blood. He had been the man's toy while he'd been at Rosenkreuz—subjected to his near every whim and desire—but the man had never broken him. He had been beaten, bruised, and bloodied an innumerable number of times, but Braun had never seen him with anything less than a mocking smile at his lips.

It had been his _thanks_.

And even then, he had known that Braun was weaker than him. He had hesitated to kill the man only because he had been naïve to the inner workings of Rosenkreuz at the time; he hadn't been sure what would become of him if higher officials at the institution caught wind of the fact that he'd murdered an instructor. He imagined he'd be incarcerated in the downstairs chambers, at best; though, with his reputation, he had figured it'd be something else.

Consequently, upon meeting Brad, he had realized the man was his only route to escape. The tall, brooding American had been sullen even then, expression stern and unforgiving, his impatience for the incompetent impressive, if not slightly intimidating. He had known, looking into the man's hazel eyes, imprisoned as he had been in Scrir's office, that Brad Crawford would be his escape.

Because he could see an echoing irritation in the man's eyes—could sense his disloyalty to the rest of Rosenkreuz by the way he was so _painstakingly_ perfect, and he latched on almost desperately to the prospect of him. He had never been a passive prisoner to begin with, but after meeting Brad, he had exaggerated near everything he did. When Braun was around, he went out of his way to be chaotic, nevermind the bruises and cuts he'd nurse when he was alone afterward. He went especially out of his way when he encountered Braun and Scrir those few times, using his telepathy to bite at the very twinges of Braun's subconscious, always having been a bit surprised that the man not know he was reading him.

Brad had always been impossible to read—their first meeting had left him admittedly perplexed, curious about the dark-haired man who had stared disinterestedly at him, trying to gauge his potential, seemingly disinterested by his lewdness. He almost hadn't realized why he had been so enraptured by the man, by his severe sort of appeal, until—vaguely, almost absently—he realized that the voices had softened. They had become but faint whispers against his consciousness, nipping wearily at his cognizance, but too weak to catch much of his attention.

And just as soon as the quiet had begun, the man had stood and left, replaced by Braun, and the madness and the chaos had broken out all around him again.

Where Brad took away the silence, Braun only made it worse.

He hadn't known it at the time, but he supposed Braun had been very unintentionally projecting, threads of his power urging at his own mind, quite unwittingly seeking to read the minds of all those around him. And whenever his telepathy teased at Schuldich's own mind, the voices multiplied, magnified by Braun's own powers, making him quite insane despite his intentions otherwise. Though Schuldich had always strived to be particularly insubordinate around Braun, a large part of his rebellion had been unintentional; he hadn't been able to control his reactions to the increased potential of his telepathy. It had been impossible to even _attempt_ to concentrate on perfecting his powers when all he heard were loud, disjointed voices, pulling at him from opposite corners.

But Brad—Brad had been different. The quiet emanated from him, radiating about him in a series of calming waves, soothing and tranquilizing. Schuldich had been attracted to that quiet—subconsciously at first, and later knowingly.

Their second meeting had been one he had been eagerly awaiting. Braun's methods had turned decidedly malicious after his latest escapade, but the bruises at his hips and thighs were little price to pay for seeing the American again.

He had felt his presence long before he'd seen him, relaxing bonelessly once he walked in, taking in the kempt dark hair, pristine uniform, and thin-wire glasses. He'd reached out telepathically then, by habit, and was perplexed by the silence he encountered, coupled by a slight frown on the brunette's part when he realized what he'd been trying to do.

He couldn't read him, which maybe shouldn't have come as a surprise, given the silence he emanated, but for a moment, Schuldich felt a surge of uncertainty. He remembered his initial impression of the man, that peculiar sense that there were deeper objectives to him—that his loyalty to Rosenkreuz was little more than a means to further his goals—and shifted forward anxiously. Scrir was there, too…but he was little more than white noise in his background.

Irrationally, he wondered if being closer to the man would help the noise fade further. Already, the voices had quieted about him, though he was aware that he could still summon them at will. And Crawford had turned hazel eyes on him, curious at his earnest, and asked why it was that Schuldich found him so entertaining.

And Schuldich had scarcely been able to contain his excitement.

He had tried at the man's consciousness again, wanting to communicate mentally, if he could, but the American's mind was as good as dead, locked away in a sea of all-consuming quiet. And he found himself yearning deliciously for that silence, wanting to taste at it and make it all his.

Instead, he had focused his eyes on Crawford's, licking at his lips and hoping the man would understand his request.

* * *

The knowledge that he had been stronger than Braun all those years ago—when he'd lacked training and discipline—was mildly settling. But still…he licked at his lips, looking around apprehensively…he didn't recognize those other figures. They hadn't spoken yet, and—it being Rosenkreuz—they were all trained in shielding their minds.

Schuldich pushed annoyedly at the wound at his middle, finding it difficult to concentrate with the slicing, pulsing pain that stemmed from a large gash at his abdomen and ebbed down his legs and up his torso in a numbing, hypnotic sort of way. Again, he caught Farfarello's eye.

He felt Farfarello's surprise when he entered his mind, aware of the startled quirk of the man's brow. The Irishman wasn't used to the feel of him, given that Schuldich didn't make it a habit of his to enter his mind, and simply regarded the redhead curiously, blissfully immune to the invasive feel of Schuldich's mind against his.

Briefly, Schuldich wondered why he hadn't thought of it earlier.

Farfarello's gift was a unique one.

* * *

Crawford wasn't surprised when Schuldich straightened beside him, hand dropping lithely from his abdomen, seemingly unaware of the resultant bubbling of blood. The German stepped forward easily, twining his hands and cracking at his knuckles conversationally. "You know," the familiar lilt of the redhead's teasing tone had returned, and he slipped seamlessly into German as he turned emerald eyes back on Farfarello, "…they say you're supposed to slice the throat from ear to ear…for a _proper_ sacrifice. Blood's supposed to trickle _everywhere_."

He grinned as he motioned the silver-haired man towards the group standing before them, "…But Berserker's our resident expert on sacred ritual."

On cue, Farfarello exploded forward, knife already in hand, blind fury painting everything red. And it was appropriate, Schuldich decided, feeling Crawford pressing something tight against his abdomen and securing it there with a piece of cloth.

Braun had been stupid in forgetting about Farfarello and his tendencies.

Farf knew a lot about the real Eszett—about as much as Nagi, he supposed—but _unlike_ Nagi, he was also the type that worked entirely by trigger. Comparing the entire exchange to a sacrifice had been Braun's first mistake. Forgetting that Farf had been a prisoner in the downstairs chambers and likely knew about the _real_ Eszett had been another. Daring to presume the likes of Eszett had been his final one.

To Farfarello, Eszett was the permissible divine. It was the antithesis to the God he so detested, and consequently, an entity worth protecting. Any deviation against that agency—against the overseeing Eszett—was in turn an alliance to God, and consequently…something of a personal offense against the Irishman.

Even if the symbolism hadn't been so overwhelmingly cheap, Schuldich had a feeling that Farfarello would've attacked. His bloodlust had been building since he had seen Schuldich's wounds, and the entire lamb analogy had been a bit much.

Braun was an idiot.

He felt himself smile a little at that.

* * *

He had seen Berserker at work before, but it surprised him a little to note that the pale albino had seemingly been holding back whenever he'd grappled with Ken. The man had lunged forward at the group gathered before them, knives at both his hands, body too fast to follow. Immediately afterwards, Prodigy had disappeared, cloaked by his telekinesis, wreaking his own kind of havoc.

Mastermind, he noted, had remained still, blood gathering generously under the white bandage Oracle had tightened at his side, and he was leaning heavily on the man. His eyes were closed, fingertips spasmodically twitching, and Aya realized—belatedly—that he was fighting only with his telepathy, occasionally shirking against Oracle when he encountered an attack.

He was aware that he was missing a lot of what was going on, finding it curious that Oracle remain still, not even withdrawing his gun. And yet, he understood what the man's power was, and didn't doubt that, in some way or another, he was helping.

Berserker was inflicting the most damage, fighting in that reckless way that he did, blood splattering remarkably about, pelting them all in a most macabre mimicry of rain. Aya looked about quickly, gauging the distance between them and the Rosenkreuz elite, and unsheathed his katana. He was about to run forward, ready to attack, when Mastermind shifted abruptly in Oracle's arms, turning wholly emerald eyes in his direction. The German's pupils were swallowed entirely by his irises, and when he spoke, Aya realized that he wasn't so much hearing the man's actual words, as he was _imagining_ them.

Somehow, Mastermind had sneaked a link into his mind. A useful little tidbit, similar to the one Schwarz regularly employed, he supposed, and one that allowed him to evade the more underhanded attacks at his person. He could see that Omi and Youji had joined the fight, too, Ken still unconscious at Oracle and Mastermind's feet.

_Left, Abyssinian._

And he shifted left, unthinkingly, as though the suggestion had somehow bypassed his own, natural nerve impulses. His opponent was small, a few inches taller than Omi, maybe, but he was quick, and his attacks were spitfire. Twice, already, Aya had been left recoiling from the force of his attack. He was an empath, Mastermind had said. Aya had found himself at something of a loss, not having thought that empathy could really have been considered much of a useful trait at Rosenkreuz.

But there were many things he didn't understand. The empathy of his opponent was coupled with other, subtler gifts, and with them, he was able to slightly predict the angle and intent of Aya's attacks, drawing energy and passion from the very anger he could feel emanating from the redhead. As it was, the man was focused entirely on Aya, his gift trained on the redhead, channeling his every nerve-impulse and emotion.

It was a double-edged weapon—he could feel the burdening weakness of the injured telepath a few feet away, but he was likewise thriving on Aya's rage.

Aya winced when a distraction—Prodigy had frozen in midstep, shrill scream escaping his lips—resulted in a hit to the face and a split lip. He fell to the floor at the impact, confused for a moment, before scampering frantically across the floor, kicking at his aggressor's legs, belatedly aware that the man was withdrawing some type of weapon. He watched on, eyes wide, tasting the sharp and metallic twang of blood in his mouth, as the empath sneered at him—curly tufts of hair curling like snakes about his face—training a shiny, silvery gun at his person.

_Die, Abyssinian._

And it was as odd a request as he supposed he was ever going to hear.

Behind him, he could hear another gut-wrenching scream.

Aya stared ahead unblinkingly, amethyst eyes strangely consumed by the seductive iridescence of the empath's silver gun as it scattered the light into a multitude of feeble rainbows about him.

He had only a very vague notion of what Mastermind had suggested.

_He'll kill you._

And there wasn't even sympathy in the voice.

His consideration was short lived. Behind him, Prodigy let out another agonized scream, his pain mingling with his power and resonating in the flickering lights above and shaking foundations below.

Quickly, and this time using the distraction to his favor, Aya reached for his katana.

He felt the bullet pierce him just as suddenly as he had pulled the blade of his katana clear across his torso, intent on inflicting the most pain possible with the lowest amount of actual damage. Before him, the empath fell to his feet, shuddering in much the same way that Aya was, clutching at his chest as though the blood that was seeping steadily from the redhead were coming from his very own body.

The man cursed under his breath, clumsily reaching for his gun, crawling towards where it lay a few inches from Aya's own extended legs.

His instincts for self-preservation—though sluggish given his shock—were jump-started by a sudden rush of adrenaline. He reacted accordingly, kicking desperately at the gun and at his aggressor's hands, sending it skittering across the stark, white marble flooring with a loud clang.

Feverish blue eyes locked on his at the action, and Aya closed his eyes, swinging madly with his katana. He didn't open them until he heard the tell-tale sickening crunch of bones and the soft reassuring slice of smoother skin and muscle tissue. And even then, he swung a few more times for good measure.

It hadn't exactly been a clean job.

It was more the type of mess Ken usually made, Aya noted, using his katana to pull himself up. He inspected the unmoving body at his feet, frowning at the sudden cold he felt seeping into his bones, and was mildly aware that he was entirely soaked in blood. Suddenly hypersensitive, he wiped at the congealing blood he felt at his cheeks, and brushed roughly at his lips. He had been closer than usual to the empath during his attack; he doubted there was an inch on his body that wasn't covered in blood.

Morbidly, he watched as blood dripped from the very front of his bangs to the floor in a steady, perversely soothing rhythm. He was bleeding too, but he couldn't feel that pain, yet.

The only discomfort he felt was the loud, deafening pound of his heart against his chest.

He took a step backwards, his footing slick and sticky, and bit at his lip when his stomach turned, uneasy at the jagged painted patterns of dark red that emanated from the fallen figure, a sharp contrast to the marble bleach underneath.

* * *

Schuldich pushed at Brad's shoulders.

Nagi needed help.

He urged the American forward, aware of Braun's telepathic attack on Nagi, and even more acutely aware of the teen's probable response. Nagi was something of a wild-card when he lent himself beyond his discipline; almost as ruthless and uncontrollable as Farfarello.

It was difficult keeping tabs on everyone.

He was used to his links to Schwarz—familiar with their minds, with the taste and scent of their consciousnesses—and they, in turn, were used to him. Their minds weren't entirely open to his probing—Brad's, at least, never would be—but they were decidedly lax and receptive to his pressure.

It was harder to keep track of the Weiss. Their minds were entirely foreign to him, save for the few times he'd delighted in messing around with Siberian and Balinese, and their consciousnesses were consequently barricaded to his intruding presence. The reason for this was just as much a component of distrust as it was one of unfamiliarity. The simple fact of the matter was that he had only vague inklings of what the minds of the Weiss were like.

It was like trying to remember what someone's voice sounded like after hearing it once on an answering machine.

Trying to predict what Braun's little group was intent on doing was another matter entirely.

He was already weak from his blood loss, bodily reaction that he couldn't avoid, even cheating as he was with Farfarello's lent ability to resist the pain. Had he been stronger, and perhaps not so tuned in with Abyssinian, he might've been able to intercept Braun's attack, but he had been distracted, and Braun was a strong enough telepath to block him successfully on occasion.

He was vaguely suspicious that someone else was interfering with his telepathy—a form of psychic static, he supposed—but there was little Schuldich could do about that. He was in no shape to fight, given his blood loss, and even if he _were_ to engage in a sparring of sorts, he'd be at less of a mental advantage. He wouldn't be able to help out the others with his gift.

Already, he had loosened his hold on Balinese and Bombay, intent on relaying more of his focus to his teammates.

He was being honest. He'd much rather lose Weiss than Schwarz. That was as easy a tradeoff as he could imagine.

Still, he scanned about him swiftly, taking in the sight of Abyssinian as he rose clumsily to his feet, his cheeks pale and sallow despite the crimson rouge that was streaked across his cheeks in an echoed effigy of sorts. He was weak, Schuldich noted, but not resigned.

Bombay was faring well enough, even without his aid.

And Balinese—

—Balinese was facing Irol.

Schuldich's eyes narrowed. Irol had been one of the strongest proponents against Ezsett in their time. She hadn't been outspoken about it—no one at the institution really dared to be—but she had been ruthless in her disregard for Rosenkreuz's norms and regulations, most especially in regard to Ezsett.

He didn't know what her power was. He had never been exposed to her _personally_, though he was aware that Brad had been confronted by her on occasion—mostly due to his misbehavior. That ignorance about her made him uneasy. She too, like Brad, was unreadable.

She had probably been the one to awaken him earlier.

Briefly, he chanced a touch at Balinese's mind, taking in a sudden, heavy breath at his entry. He had forgotten how delicious the blonde's mind was. Like Brad's, it was all-encompassing quiet. It made it easier to focus—he had been struggling since he had sent Crawford to help Nagi—and, for a few moments, he let himself drown in the waves of quiet, happily lapping at the silence before resurfacing.

He was aware of Balinese's discomfort at the invasion, a brief quirk of his russet brow all the indication the man offered before diving back into battle. He was holding his own against Irol, occasionally landing his blows, but Schuldich supposed that was only because she was still gauging him as her opponent.

Things would change when she harnessed her powers. Balinese wouldn't have much of a chance, then. Schuldich took a step forward, ready to intervene, when a sudden errant thought distracted him.

He spun around, losing his balance momentarily, and drew in a sharp breath once he spotted Brad. The man was grappling with Braun, brows gathered in anger and eyes narrowed menacingly. He could sense the American's indecision even from where he stood, taking in his too-tense shoulders, and the way his fists were just barely shaking. There was anger there, and irritation, but also an underlying sense of retribution and vengeance.

And, though Brad had never mentioned it to him, Schuldich knew that there were deeper and darker things linking him to Braun. He had never been able to read Brad, but…he had _always_ been able to read Braun.

And that had been enough.

* * *

_Schuldich had been surprised at first, not sure whether Braun were playing a trick on him or not. His telepathy was infantile at best, strong but hardly harnessed, and he was still growing accustomed to the different telepathic proddings he received from all corners of the institution. It was easy for him to know when Braun was attempting to read him, but it wasn't always the case. There were stronger telepaths at Rosenkreuz—ones he'd never met—and these didn't hesitate to probe his mind, even when he was outside of experimentation. _

_Still, the image had been bright, and clear, and crisp in his mind, and for a moment, he had wondered at the tall, raven-haired man that had visited him earlier. He had felt a palpable desire from Braun when the man had entered—had **seen** with his own eyes the way he regarded the young man—but he wondered vaguely at the American's own motivations. _

_Crawford was unreadable—his mind a steel vault—and his own physical reactions were rarely much of an indicator. Everything was perfectly and securely held in check. Schuldich wasn't used to it, at all. His telepathy had always allowed him to know what others were thinking. _

_Crawford unsettled him, partly because he couldn't read him, and partly because Braun's own mind was so at odds with what he perceived from the brunette. _

_There were things in Braun's mind—realities and memories, not **desires**—that involved the precog. Their involvement with one another was unmistakable—enough that Schuldich wondered if Crawford weren't being manipulated by the man on some level—but tentative at best. Crawford didn't seem the type to be dominated by anyone. Not even his **mentor**, as Braun preferred that the American refer to him. _

_But there was something strange there, nonetheless. _

_And it was all, crystal clear, in Braun's own mind. _

* * *

Brad had managed to intercept Braun, but only barely.

There was no anger in Braun, however. Instead, there was a self-satisfied leer working its way onto his full lips, and his caramel eyes were sparkling with malice. He studied the American almost unblinkingly, something akin to a mocking concern visible in his expression, before shrugging apologetically towards Nagi.

The small telekinetic lay a few feet from them, nursing a broken wrist as he curled in feebly about himself, product of Braun's telepathic attack and Gamund's physical one. Already, Farfarello stood before Nagi, guarding him viciously, somehow having managed to anticipate Braun's attack.

Bombay, too, had come to the brunette's aid.

He was kneeling beside Nagi, hands tight on his wrist, trying very gingerly to coax it back into position. As he worked, aided by Nagi's own telepathy, Farfarello growled and hissed when Gamund continued Braun's abandoned approach, backed this time by Irol, who had left her game with Balinese in favor of a more challenging fight.

Even from where he stood, Schuldich could sense Gamund's excitement at confronting Farfarello. The Irishman was positively seething, visible gold eye flickering wildly about, features tense, disfigured mouth drawn into a grim line. He was counting in his mind, Schuldich knew from experience, calculating and trying to determine how many knives would be necessary to do in his attackers. Briefly, Schuldich wondered if Farf even knew who Gamund and Irol were.

It was too late, in any event.

Farfarello's hands were already twitching nervously—_excitedly_—and, like so many times before, the knives had already appeared at his hands.

Schuldich licked at his lips, turning emerald eyes on Gamund, even when this one ignored him. Gamund had been the reason he hadn't been able to pick up on Braun's intentions of attacking Nagi. _He_ was the one responsible for all the psychic static.

It was no wonder Brad had been having trouble seeing things.

At least Gamund would be at something of a disadvantage with Farfarello. His insanity granted him _some_ leverage, insofar as the mind-readers were concerned. Not that Gamund was a mind reader.

* * *

Youji sagged a little under Aya's weight, supporting the redhead even as this one tried to stumble away. He understood the redhead's concern—Omi was, afterall, largely in enemy territory, surrounded by Schwarz and the others. But he was assuaged in knowing that Berserker was protecting him, most especially now that he had seen the more sanguinistic side of the albino.

Mastermind, however, was detached from the fight, standing to the side, his gaze sweeping across the room periodically. He could sense the man's fear—his desperation—most especially now that Oracle was away. There was something _wrong_ about that, he realized—something fundamentally tragic and vulnerable about the redhead's need to be within range of the American—but he understood. He had always sensed vulnerability in the German—vestiges of a scared little boy, still palpable under his mocking exterior—and he could see that child perfectly now, standing overwhelmed as he oversaw everything that was going on.

He was soaked in blood, as was Aya, but the origin of that blood was essentially different and sinister. He could see, from as far as he was, that his cheeks were puckered and discolored—as though he had been hit by an uneven, multi-faceted object, and his lips were torn and swollen in that characteristic way. His arms were bruised purple from where he'd been roughly held, and on his wrists, Youji could very vaguely make out where the rope had cut him. His pants, too, low on his slim hips, were tattered—and through the ragged patches, Youji could see the bright scratches, and the blood, and the bruises.

Mastermind seemed to become aware of his scrutiny only slowly, his mocking emerald eyes turning to his sleepily, distracted as they were with the battle raging before them. A faint smile came to the German's lips as he nodded, gesturing absently toward Abyssinian—inviting him forward. Youji's eyes fell to the telepath's feet, were Ken still lay—unconscious—and he mirrored Mastermind's nod.

It'd be okay for now, to leave Aya there.

He licked at his lips and looked back toward the redhead, taking in those bruises again, and remembering the uncharacteristic warmth and gentleness the man had displayed during their earlier encounter. He had been vulnerable there, too, Youji realized—almost tentative, uncertain—and his eyes had lit up excitedly when he'd realized _something_, and then there had been quiet between them…comfortable, soothing, _healing_ quiet.

Mastermind stared back steadily at him, and smiled when Youji didn't look away.

* * *

"Berserker," Gamund grinned, flexing dramatically in a way that was reminiscent of Schuldich. "It's been a while."

There was no flicker of recognition in Berserker's eyes. He remained still, knives clutched securely in his hands, feet shifting only occasionally to reinstate his possessive claim on the two boys he was protecting. There was a peculiar glint to Gamund's own eyes, silver dancing excitedly at the proposition of a fight.

Irol was more cautious. Her eyes—so dark they were nearly black—were focused intently on Berserker, studying all parts of him with modest anticipation. What Gamund lacked in his impetuousness, she made up for in diligence.

Gamund took a few steps forward—slowly—and smiled when Farfarello held his ground, gold eye narrowed in seeming lucidity. The albino swept his arm to his right, trying to gauge the distance between himself and Nagi, and frowned a little. The lack of an eye left him at something of a disadvantage, and he wasn't keen on turning his back on his attackers.

_They're a few feet behind you._

The whispered voice always came when he needed it.

He licked at his lips, a strange sort of eagerness building in his gut, and shifted his weight to his back foot, ready to attack.

Gamund correctly anticipated his move, throwing himself forward even before Farfarello had a chance to fully position himself, and the two fell to the floor in a mass of coiled, writhing muscle.

Farefarello's fighting style was entirely asymmetrical—there was no rhyme or reason to his movements, and his kicks and punches came entirely out of nowhere. His insanity worked to his advantage, insofar as no one could anticipate his next move, and he succeeded minutely against Gamund, successfully throwing him off.

His knife came back bloody, and the albino was momentarily distracted by an errant drop that made it to the floor.

He studied it curiously, gold-eye seemingly entranced, before turning his gaze back to Gamund, a chilling smile on his lips. His eyes seemed to snap to the wound at the man's shoulder, taking in the way the blood dampened the cloth around it, making it seem darker and more sinister, even as the blood seeped weakly outwards. It hadn't been a deep cut, but Farfarello was more than entranced by the results.

Gamund was more wary now, though he didn't clutch at his wound, and he studied the Irishman carefully, trying to ascertain the best angle of attack. He was aware that his powers were largely useless against the man, given his unique gift, and he wasn't sure how efficient a sojourn into Berserker's mind would be. Even if he might _dampen_ the albino's inability to feel pain, that was no guarantee that it would serve a sufficient means to stop him.

There _were_ no guarantees with Berserker_._

Farfarello cracked something of a smile, gesturing towards Schulich with a nod, "…if he can't do it, you definitely can't."

* * *

"Stay here," Prodigy's voice was quiet as he spoke, and Omi nodded, reflexively clutching at his darts. He could see Youji a few feet away, holding onto an injured and bloodied Aya, and before him, he watched as Berserker tumbled to the floor with one of their attackers. Though there had been two—a man and a woman—who had approached when Braun had turned to Oracle, Berserker had engaged the man in battle, and that left the woman.

She was tall, though thin, and her dark eyes were severe. There was nothing particularly feminine about her, save for the round curve of her breasts, and the alluring way her waist tapered into her hips. Her mouth was curled into a dismissive frown. Prodigy pressed in close to him. "She's very powerful," he whispered, tone impassive, "…but she's hesitant."

Omi nodded, his hand steady at the brunette's back, "…her abilities extend the spectrum, but she lacks profound use of them, do you understand?"

Mildly, Omi decided that he did.

"I can stop most of her physical attacks, but the rest—I'm not sure about." Prodigy focused deep blue eyes on him, intent that he understand, "…anything's fair game."

Omi nodded again, licking at his lips, and helping the telekinetic to his feet.

He turned his gaze on the woman before them, meeting her eyes when she glanced dismissively at him, and hesitated at her smile. Like before, he was ignored when she spoke, "Prodigy. It seems time with Mastermind has whittled your mind."

Omi felt the youth stiffen beside him, even when this one said nothing.

"But let's get rid of the distractions, yes?" She snapped her eyes back on his, the malice in them obvious, before waving her hand carelessly. Omi felt a strange tickling beginning at his toes, shooting upwards and tingling at the very tips of his hair, before ending in a whispered caress at his jaw, and later, at his chest. He could feel himself falling backward—softly, with no apparent panic—comforted by that soothing caress. And there was suddenly another force, righting him, fighting against the soft, coquettish touches at his body, and he was abruptly lurched forward on all floors, his nose a few inches from marble.

Prodigy's expression was unapologetic.

He blushed, embarrassed by his earlier desire, and rose slowly to his feet. He could sense the woman's displeasure at his involvement—moreso, at the apparent distraction he was posing to Prodigy, but the brunette seemed inclined to keep matters that way. Already, he had very subtly stepped before him, shielding him a little with both his body and his telekinesis. Prodigy was shorter than him, slighter and slimmer, and altogether more like a child than he would ever seem to be. His right hand hung limp at his side.

"Enough, Irol." Prodigy raised his left arm, eyes narrowing at the effort, and hurtled a gust of his power at Irol. The woman anticipated his move and shifted to the side, responding with an attack of her own. Omi made to move, falling back into a defensive stance, when Prodigy shook his head minutely. "Don't," his voice was soft, "there's no need."

And his retort died in his throat when he watched Irol's attack dissipate before them, disappearing in an angry crackling of energy. Vaguely, he was aware that the brunette was trembling from the exertion.

His eyes, seemingly depthless, flickered about anxiously, awaiting the woman's next attack. There was a curious uncertainty about the youth, Omi noted, taking in the way he would tense and relax almost spasmodically, as though he were receiving information and then negating it as useless.

Tentatively, Omi glanced at Mastermind, wondering if he were behind Prodigy's uncharacteristic behavior, but the redhead's attention was focused elsewhere, emerald eyes wide and frightened at what he saw.

If it wasn't Mastermind, then—

"It's Gamund," Prodigy whispered, brows gathering with effort.

Gamund. Omi looked around. Was that the other one?

Prodigy nodded at his expression, "…with Berserker."

Omi nodded, taking in the silver-eyed man. He was faring well against the Irishman, save for a few bleeding cuts at his arms, and his face was flush with excitement. He was _enjoying_ the fight.

Omi wasn't quite sure what he was expected to do. He certainly wasn't being of much help to Prodigy as he was, forcing the youth to cover him from Irol's attacks. And, looking towards Berserker, he wasn't really sure he could even _attempt_ to get involved in that battle without having the albino mistake him for some expendable collateral. Still, it seemed that Gamund was sufficiently distracted by his fight with Berserker, and—though Prodigy's powers seemed to be dampened by the man's involvement—there wasn't really anything wrong with _his_ own senses, so far as Omi could tell.

So Gamund's powers were limited only to the elite? The students are Rosenkreuz?

* * *

_Brad!_

The voice was urgent in his mind—feeble, and quiet, and so far away, but _urgent_ and _demanding_ all at once. He straightened, managing to side-step Braun's well-placed bullet, and swung forward, catching the brunette along the jaw. The man tottered on his feet momentarily with the force of his punch, but regained his balance marvelously, cracking a knowing smile as he spit, coating the floor with his blood. He wiped exaggeratedly at his lips.

And again, he heard the pleading voice, barely there. Saying…_something_.

But he was distracted by Braun's own attacks—which he was having to predict based on subtleties alone, as his visions had left him some minutes ago. He suspected Gamund likely had something to do with that, but at the moment, any and all thoughts were limited to his target, and his hazel eyes were trained almost painfully on Braun, taking in all changes in his person. Any flickers of his eyes, or a tensing of his brows—they all suggested at something.

And there was that ever-present pushing at his mind, bruising and forceful, and entirely unlike the German.

He had lost his gun earlier in the fight, Gamund having knocked it out of his hand just before he physically intervened between Nagi and Braun, and he was fighting purely on instinct now, aching to kick Braun's gun away, absurdly fixated on the possibilities of doing so. Vaguely, briefly, he knew there was something Schuldich was trying to tell him, but he was consumed by his present need to disarm Braun—to _dismember_ him, to tear him to pieces for all he'd done to him and Schuldich.

And the damn bastard seemed to know that, smiling bemusedly at him, behaving as though Rosenkreuz—and 'their time together' in it—had been something akin to a reunion. He was being deliberately obtuse, Crawford realized, well-aware that Braun could've shot him in the heart a few moments ago.

He wanted to savour the moment.

Wanted to ensure Brad's surrender.

He watched, shaking in anger, as Braun swung his gun around absently, pacing leisurely as he allowed himself a glance around the room, brow raised at the carnage Farfarello had wrought. Some of that carnage belonged to Abyssinian, Brad ached to say.

"Why now?" and Brad was surprised at how raw his voice was, lacking in confidence and assertiveness.

"Why?" Braun paused in his pacing¸ raising a brow imperiously and nearly growling. His eyes, already dark, narrowed before he crossed his arms about his chest, shrugging apathetically, "Why not? More experimentation in exchange for _him_."

Brad frowned, blinking uncertainly to clear his eyes. He thought he had seen something.

Braun regarded him strangely before continuing, "There was no reason for you to leave, Crawford."

In the recesses of his mind, he thought he heard Schuldich's soft, pleading voice. It lulled him a little, making him relax despite the danger he was anticipating.

"We can take you back."

He was aware that Braun was eyeing him oddly, then, trying to gauge his response to the offer, perhaps aware that there was something that was distracting him. His gun was back at his side, safety-latch clicked off, and he raised it, training it on him absently. "Just say the word, Crawford."

And he nodded, still entranced by the timidity he felt—by the soft, pleasantness that enveloped him from all around. The fear was clear on Braun's face then, and his black eyes flickered nervously about, landing on Schuldich suspiciously. Brad watched, motions languid, as Braun abruptly changed the angle of his shot, swinging his arm to train the gun on Schuldich.

Clarity suddenly rushed into him, pushing the air out of him almost painfully, and he made to react—hands reaching forward, body already moving, when Braun let out a choked, rasped attempt at a yell. He was on his feet—tall, imposing frame seeming macabre and strangely like a marionette, and clutching madly at his throat.

His first thought was to Nagi, but a quick glance proved he was occupied with Irol.

Braun's eyes were wide and bloodshot, and there was a peculiar pallor beginning to settle onto his cheeks. His lips were rimmed a pale cyan, and his hands were twitching spasmodically toward his neck. His attempt at speech was little more than a choked plea, and suddenly—with a wide sweep across the room—Brad understood.

"You can let go now," his voice was quiet, strained. He sensed, more than saw, the way Schuldich crumpled weakly to the floor, his body trembling, eyes shielded beneath his shaggy mane. He was aware of Balinese's hesitation at his request, but the man finally relented, loosening his hold on his wire, but not backing away entirely.

It was his turn now.

His turn to return all that humiliation, one for one.

But there were other things to attend to, first.

* * *

_I'm horrible about posting these things, I know._


End file.
